


Wanderjahre

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Series: A Little Kiss From Heaven [2]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Also don't know if this counts as Label AU, Bittersweet, Coming of Age, Fantastical, High School AU, Human!Daft Punk, Label AU, Light-Hearted, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Angst, Or if I need another name, Precociousness, Slash, Slice of Life, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 05:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 140,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Paris Métro is notoriously complex, like budding adolescent feelings.<br/>A fairy-tale for adults, those about to be adults, and those who remember what it felt like to become an adult.<br/>[Guy POV, companion piece/prequel to 'La Chanson d'un Ange', experiment in magical realism.]</p><p>* Currently the main text is being reworked and refined. <b>Chapters 1-2 have been updated.</b><br/>Sidestory 02, '<i>Der Wunsch</i>' - covering Roulé's account of his <i>Victoire</i> - has also been updated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fingerspitzengefühl

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [La Chanson d’un Ange](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583384) by [magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen:  
> A decade before the millennium approached, Guillaume Emmanuel Paul de Homem-Christo was sixteen years old, and he felt no desire to _know_.
> 
> This author is in no way claiming that he had no desire for general knowledge, nor that he had no desire to know about his age. Both of those scenarios would have been worrying, to say the least, considering that he was studying at a prestigious _Lycée_ in Paris at the time. There's no way that one can know everything, but it is reasonable to say that _your own age_ is something that should hold your interest all your life. Adults drill that into you while you're young, after all, always asking what your name is and how old you are and to say thank you and please.
> 
> But no. _Knowing_ in this context I refer to the Biblical sense of the word. _Carnal_ knowledge, so good a knowledge that our figurative ancestors had to leave their figurative Paradise for it, before they settled here and became fruitful, multiplied, and eventually shuffled off their self-imposed mortal coil, _dona eis requiem, amen._ Guy at this time was content to live without giving a single thought to it, and he rightfully felt no need to justify this to anyone, for he wasn't living his life for anyone else. 
> 
> He was a reasonably attractive youth (though not breathtaking) with a pensive face and a quiet demeanour, and was well-kept and well-dressed at all times regardless of what he was doing. At sixteen he had moments of stubbornness and occasionally lacked understanding of what was right in front of him, just like how he failed to notice affections directed towards his person by his peers, as this belated _ekphrasis_ would have illustrated most faithfully; however one must keep in mind that it indicated nothing _wrong_ about him, physically or mentally, that he felt no desire. Plenty of people have lived without it for a time before growing out of that phase, some are still figuring out what they want or whether they want anything at all, and lots of people in the world go through their lives not missing it at all. This is simply the story of him having a more extraordinary time than most whilst experiencing the perfectly ordinary; it must not be taken as a challenge to real life or other creative inspiration, as this author does not hail from Porlock. 
> 
> Therefore her discourse stops with one final message, that being that she _does not know any of the members of Daft Punk, that this account is strictly a work of fiction and she does not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story._

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 01) - '** _Fingerspitzengefühl_ **'**

\------------------

"... Thomas! Thomas, over here!"

From the entrance of Porte Dauphine Station a boy hollered over the Monday-morning rain, waving his hand frantically towards the distance. He had an umbrella over his head, but tiny beads of water were already nestled in his long dark hair, him having waited for nearly ten minutes by this point, but thankfully he wasn't to wait for much longer. Thomas - a boy just as tall as he, yet with a much softer, younger face - hurtled across the road with his satchel over his head the moment the lights changed, running directly towards him.

" _Salut, Guy!_ " he shouted, reciprocating the wave. "I'm sorry I was late - traffic-"

It wasn't usually like him to be late, but in fairness the overhead traffic seemed _awful_ that morning, and they had no time to be discussing such things. The two met each other at the middle, and the older boy quickly put his umbrella over them both as he led them towards the station. It was hardly a _large_ umbrella (and not of much use to Thomas, who was already rather soaked) but it was _Guy's_ and the older boy was usually the one in charge of bringing umbrellas to share. It had always been that way. They made it down to the platform just as the train arrived, and ran onboard.

Despite the rain, that day the Métro seemed uncannily empty - in what would usually be a place so crowded that they often grabbed hands as to not lose each other, today they could actually afford to sit down. The two boys got to doing so immediately, water flecking off their satchels as they tossed them forwards to claim their seats first; a couple of people gave them hard, disapproving stares, but neither of the boys cared as they laughed and collapsed onto their seats. "Oh wow, that was lucky," Thomas exclaimed, almost immediately stretching out his legs - he was going through a growth spurt, they were getting alarmingly longer by the month or two - and leaning his head back with a slight thud on the window. "whew. When was the last time you actually managed to _sit down_ in the Métro? Too long for me, I barely even remembered what colour the seats were."

"Same here. And oh look, someone even left a _newspaper_. Yesterday's _Le Monde_."

Thomas glanced over at the older boy. "... This is kind of weird, though, isn't it? Sitting down. Do you think we should move? In case someone needs it more than we do?"

"We'll move when those people appear in front of us, Thomas. I mean, hey, we're only just going to make it even if this train arrives on time. We're going to be doing a lot of running later, might as well sit down and rest when there are seats to spare. How was your weekend?"

" _Très bon, très bon_. Papa took me out on Saturday and I bought a new record."

The train paused and let in a stream of commuters, and the boys grabbed onto their satchels, ready to get up if required; no one in need came along, however, so they relaxed again as they began to move again. " _'Introspective'_. I've been waiting to get it for ages."

" _'In-tro-spec-tive'! Mince alors_ ," Guy exclaimed. "that wouldn't be the Pet Shop Boys record, would it?"

"The one and very same!"

Guy cursed again, nothing but pure admiration in his voice. He was used to this by now, Thomas buying a new record every week or two and cheerfully telling him about it, but every now and then he came up with something Guy _himself_ desperately wanted and teased him with the barest mention of it. "And I suppose it'd be positively _vulgar_ to ask you if I can borrow it sometime soon."

"Oh, it would be. I'll bring it tomorrow."

"... I - what?"

Thomas swept back his wet hair, a trickle of water running down his cheek, and grinned dazedly. "Tomorrow. I'll bring it for you. I've already listened to it, and even though I shan't spoil, I think it's worth you having a quiet listen or two yourself as soon as possible. I shouldn't let my best friend go without the joys I've had, _non?_ "

"Yes, please. You're a darling."

They looked at each other for a moment, Guy with his neatly-groomed appearance and Thomas already dishevelled from the rain - two friends who'd not seen each other for the entirety of two days - before they began to laugh, both giddy from the adrenaline rush that'd come with running to catch the train. "When we get to school, you're finding a mirror and fixing your hair, I swear to _God_ ," Guy cried, and that just made them laugh harder for they knew that the state of them could only worsen once they disembarked; appearances being what they were, however, they managed to calm down and get Thomas's hair to stick up less when the speakers chimed and announced their station. But because they were still both in such a tearing hurry, and because rain had stopped by the time they'd emerged again from the station, Guy failed to notice immediately that he'd forgotten his umbrella on the seat when he left the train. It wasn't as if he _minded_ awfully when he eventually did notice, but - well, that's a story to come. The important thing was that they managed to get to school in time that day, racing each other, laughing, asserted in their already-ruffled uniform and relentless youth as they went through the front gates.

When every passenger was safely in place once more, the train closed its doors and left, onward to its next destination.  
But the very last commuter to leave remained standing by the platform even as the rest dissipated towards the exit. He had a leather briefcase in one hand, a grey suit jacket slung on the same arm, and in his other hand he held Guy's umbrella; with expression impenetrable he gazed down at it, then towards where the boy had gone, deep in thought.

\-----

A high school was a very odd place to be in, if one really thought about it.

At least, that was Guy's subconscious opinion of his surroundings as he took his notes. The day was way too nice, the teacher's voice droning on and into frankly-terrible _ennui;_ but somewhere in the exact same building, a student couple were wandering the corridors holding hands, the new English teacher had just spilt her coffee all over her desk, and down in the laboratory the chemistry class was collectively being scolded for having left the hydrochloric acid out of the fume cupboard. Even more than those individual occurrences, there were hundreds of people who didn't even _have_ lessons just sitting outside, or in the cafeteria, waiting around.

"- with Danton's fierce speech against Charles William Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick-"

As for _them,_ they were all stuck here in History class, but they would break for lunch in less than twenty minutes and that was really all Guy cared about.

"- ' _de l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace_ '-"

He felt a nudge from Thomas. Out of reflex, he glanced quickly at him and then towards the far side of the class. Dark-haired René grinned at the two of them - their daily ritual of sorts was ongoing and it was his turn. Thomas passed the tightly-folded note to him from under the desk and he stretched out his left hand for it, keeping the other one writing steadily to conceal what he was doing. Only when the teacher had turned around did he exercise the liberty to unfold the note and read what it said.

 _ René _ _: chips a/r_  
 _Thom: crème c._  
 _Guy:_  
 _Laurent:_

Guy smiled. He liked order, and between the four of them they had plenty of it. Every lunchtime, they would pass around a piece of paper amongst themselves and note down a snack they fancied; the boy with his name underlined would then go down to the corner shop for them. It was never the same boy twice in a row, which evened out their costs fairly well. Aside from that, however, their preferred snacks hardly ever varied, and that was just fine with Guy. Smiling still, he wrote down what he wanted, predicting already that Laurent would go for an Orangina as he had done the past month or so.

_Guy: l.a.c._

On went the note, to Laurent at the very back of the class. It was a blessing that all four of them were well-liked and no one in the class ever gave them away. The sky outside was clouded with fluffy white, the morning rain having long since dried. Ten minutes to go.

His hair was getting into his eyes. Guy blinked and brushed a lock of it away, frowning lightly. He'd tie it back in a ponytail if he could, and if Thomas hadn't liked him better with it loose. As if reading his mind, at that moment Thomas reached out and doodled something on Guy's notebook with his left hand. Closer examination revealed it to be an almost-incomprehensible _'Âllo'_ \- for he couldn't write with his left hand - but the older boy smirked down at it nonetheless. Thomas would just _do_ things like that to constantly reassure him of his presence, and he'd done so for a couple of years now; while Guy was forever nervous about lending his notes out to anyone because of this, having such a close friend was well worth it.

"... Monsieur Bangalter, could you give a definition of natural-and-inalienable rights?"

"Oh, um," Thomas exclaimed, jumping slightly as he was called upon; immediately he blushed a deep pink as the rest of the class giggled, but he answered correctly nonetheless. "r-rights that belong to everyone by birth, and, erm, which can't be taken away?"

" _Exactement._ Some of you will know this from your other classes already. Based on the theories of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the English philosopher John Locke-"

 _You did good,_ Guy mouthed at him, and nudged his wrist playfully. Thomas gave him a bright grin in response. His hair glinted in the afternoon sun.

Returning to what he'd been thinking earlier, though, high school really _was_ a very odd place to be in. Speaking purely in terms of atmosphere, there was something comfortable yet perpetually alien about it, and Guy had no idea why this should be the case. Perhaps it was their uniforms, hiding each individual perfectly beneath the self-same outfits, both ridding them of and bestowing upon them an identity. Wearing it they all had that sense of belonging, for sure, but there was so little one could discover about a person by just looking at a uniform.  
Guy looked down and picked at his tie. Save for _that_ , he quite liked his uniform: dark blue and gold-edged jacket, white button-up shirt, and dark trousers. They were meant to be smart trousers, but plenty got past with jeans as well, as he often did. Patting over the knot of the tie, sitting just beneath his throat, he assured himself that it was still fastened well and not too tightly so. He had several different ties, all in conservative shades (dark blue, silver and black, thin golden stripes on solid-dark grey, and so on), but he could never acclimatize himself to them. Too restrictive.

"Guy," Laurent called behind him, tapping lightly at his shoulder, and he looked around. René had already left to run down to the shop, and everyone else was packing up as well. Lunchtime at last.

The sun was still out, so they went out and found a four-person bench and table they could relax on. (Thomas placed his satchel on the other side so that Réne would have a seat waiting for him.) It meant little in this _Lycée_ how many people one ate with, though the consensus that more was better than none - but plenty of people just walked around nibbling on their sandwiches by themselves, or sat by themselves and with a stack of books in the cafeteria. There was nothing wrong about that, though it was a way of school life that _neither_ Guy nor Thomas could identify with, having been together for so long. They were barely settled into their seats and pulling their lunchboxes out when René came running back into school grounds, giving them a wild wave with one hand and bundling a white plastic bag to his chest as he dodged the other students walking past.

" _Désolé,_ coming through - _ah, merci!_ \- sorry for the wait."

"Barely," Laurent replied, impressed despite himself at the other's speed, as the usual Orangina was set down before him. Thomas was given his _crème-caramel_ in a plastic cup (who then proceeded to attack it immediately with his spoon, not being a fan of eating desserts last) and René handed Guy his _lait au chocolat_ , who took it absent-mindedly as he rifled through his satchel. "you were the first in there?"

"You bet I was. The price of those-" he showed them the bag of garlic/rosemary potato chips before tearing it open. "- went up by two francs, by the way, need to work that into our budgets."

"Ah, _fuck_ ," Guy interrupted at that point, exclaiming in English - the universal signal between the four of them that Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo had screwed up - and slapped his hand to his forehead, pushing his satchel closed. "I don't believe this. _What an idiot_."

"... Not that I don't share your opinion, Guy, but they're still just _potato chips_. Calm down."

He blinked and stared incredulously at René. " _Potato chips?_ Who said anything about potato chips, I left my umbrella behind! It better not rain on the way home."

"Left it where? Shall we go look for it anyway?"

"It's no use, Laurent. Sit back down. I left it on the Métro."

Laurent winced, but did as asked, acknowledging the futility of the situation. "On the _Métro_. Yeah... uh, you're not going to get that back. You didn't leave anything else?"

"Just that. _Dieu merci!_ Thomas, close your mouth. Don't look so worried, I'll buy another. It wasn't even an _expensive_ umbrella," Laurent nodded, satisfied with the other's readily-practical attitude, and that was the end of that conversation. "... can I borrow your notes for English, Thomas, I don't think I've taken any in the past week."

"Mmh," the younger boy nodded towards his own satchel, spooning out some of the _crème-caramel_ and coating the morsel in a generous amount of syrup. "'s not going to be much use to you now, though, there's something like fifteen pages in there you must have missed..."

"I was still physically sitting in the lessons. I'll make it work."

René snickered, folding the potato chip bag lengthwise and then twice over again. "In body, _oui,_ but in spirit?" he asked, twisting it into what seemed like a note square. "if you weren't _thinking_ about it you might as well not have been there at all, Guy, Descartes would have a field day with you."

"No he wouldn't. He can't do anything with me because he's been dead only for the past three centuries and a half, and he's most certainly not thinking about _anything_."

René laughed and slipped the folded chip bag into the trashcan nearby. "Hey, I'm probably not one to talk, either. I'm willing to admit that I was very much absent-in-spirit during that last lesson, I can't stand Monsieur Viette _,_ he just drones _on_. I hate History."

"Oh, good _._ That means you can do without Guy's notes, if you dislike the class so much."

"Don't make this any harder on me, Thom, will you? It shouldn't be this sinful to be French and yet not find the French Revolution all that interesting. It was all _too long ago_. Guy, if you wouldn't mind...?"

"All too long ago, I see. Hence why you went and took up a dead language."

"Dead doesn't mean useless. Besides I take it a lot seriously than you, say, take the English language. It's already thoroughly been influenced by other cultures and languages, it doesn't need you to batter it around _more_."

"Ouch. I take _myself_ seriously. _Tua mater._ "

" _Mon Dieu!_ You leave my poor _Maman_ out of this."

Guy chuckled but handed over his history notes nonetheless, smirking to himself because he was still amused by such childlike wit. René and Laurent simultaneously began to pore over them together, History not being their best subject by a large margin, while the two other boys sat back and finished their lunch. Thomas was licking his spoon clean and making a very thorough job of it; he was kind of catlike, the older boy remarked to himself as he uncapped his chocolate milk and took a swig out of it. The liquid was pleasantly cold, rich and sweet on his tongue, the childhood herald of summer yet to come.

Thomas always had the daintiest sandwiches. Guy knew that it was Thomas's father who made them every morning, and never quite ceased to marvel about that.  
Was there anything the Bangalter family _wasn't_ capable of doing?

"... prefer the World Wars, personally," Laurent was murmuring quietly, sipping on his Orangina now and then. "we study that next year, apparently. I heard that we get to go on field trips too, actually _see_ the site. You know, at Picardy. At Somme. I heard it was an amazing experience, absolutely unreal - and the good news is that it's not even that far away from where we are."

"So what's the _bad_ news?"

"You'd be in _Picardy,_ that's what," Guy interjected with a snort, provoking a glare from René (who had relatives there). Thomas in the meanwhile leaned against him, giggling; his head rested against Guy's shoulder, his soft curly hair tickling at his neck, and the older boy drew in a quiet breath.

In a brotherly way, he felt protective towards Thomas when they were both together, even when they were amongst friends, purely on account of their age; that's what his own parents had told him once, early on in their friendship, that he was responsible for the other if no other authority figure could be found. Over time he'd also taken that definition to include teenage emotions, though admittedly, Guy was going through puberty with a very stable state of mind compared to everyone else he knew and thus didn't know all that much about how to handle outbursts. He just wasn't the type to dwell on things that had no practical appeal, or didn't help anyone around him, in the slightest. Yet he was still kind, and whenever Thomas sulked about anything or had any kind of trouble, Guy did his best to help out, getting much genuine gratitude in return.

Perhaps that was why their friendship had worked so well.  
Both Guy and Thomas demanded little of each other, the former because of inherent disposition and the latter due to his angel-immaturity.

And really, he couldn't help it. Thomas was quite possibly the gentlest and the most _harmless_ person Guy had ever known, cute and kind and spoiled-sweet. He'd been brought up in a well-off household, raised firmly but lovingly like hibiscus in a greenhouse, and it showed in his sunny demeanour and a near-perpetual look of curiosity. He really should have been in the year below, but ever since he was twelve years old he'd been in Guy's grade, having been considered intelligent enough for it. This was by no means unusual amongst the students of the school, but between him and Guy it lent them a perceptive difference: they both considered each other equal, and yet Thomas displayed a near-fledgling dependence towards him at times, for he had come to regard the older boy as his guide. (Guy found it mildly flattering, but really, he _fussed_ more than anything.)

Still, they were friends, and that was one of the few objective facts they knew and understood at that point in time. The bell rang for class again, and they went back in.  
When school was over several hours later, Guy lamented the lack of his umbrella once more; but at least he was with Thomas, and for that alone he felt justified in getting soaked in the rain _together_ , even through the drops of water trickling down his cheeks and the long locks of his hair sticking to his face. Never mind the umbrella, he could always get another one, it was no problem at all.

All in all, it was a perfectly ordinary day.  
Which was just as well, because it would be the last of those that Guy would have in a while.

\-----

"- Mm, so I'll be at school before you today, I'm literally about to go in the next minute or two."

" _Oh, yeah, I understand,_ " Guy responded in English, the receiver cradled between his shoulder and cheek as he finished off his breakfast. " _we're all cool, see you there_."

Thomas was laughing at the other end. "Stop that! You're the _furthest_ thing from cool when English is involved. What're you eating?"

The older boy smirked, now polishing a ripe-red apple on his napkin. "But how would I remind you of the test today otherwise, speak in German? _Was willst du von mir?_ Now that'd be _backwards,_ " he then bit into the apple with a crisp crunch in lieu of an answer, making sure that Thomas could hear, and took his time to chew and swallow before speaking up again. "you're bringing that record today?"

"Got it right here. Now I've really got to run, Guy, enjoy your apple."

"Mm-hmm, _à plus tard._ "

The phone was hung up and Guy leaned back, idly thumbing through a magazine and checking his watch. Thomas would get to school a good hour earlier than he would, and if his stint as student library assistant was going to work out, this was how things would be from now on, every Tuesdays until at least the end of the year. He hadn't taken a single step out of his chair and he already felt uneasy about the whole business, thinking of entering the school gates without him. Guy knew that it wasn't very logical of him, but habit was a great deadener, and they'd shared their daily morning journeys for so long. At no point in the past two years had they been apart for this - he could swear up and down that he and Thomas even _synced_ illnesses and off-days together without meaning to.

"Oh, well," he mumbled, tossing the apple core across the kitchen and directly into the wastebasket. "what the hell."

Enough of that, now. They had an English test to get through that day (which he hadn't bothered to study for), it was his turn to buy the snacks, and he needed to pester Thomas for the Pet Shop Boys record later. He found time to tiptoe for an extra bar of chocolate from the top shelf of the cupboard and stash it in his lunchbox before he went to brush his teeth, put his uniform jacket, tie and shoes on and left the house; there he embarked on a leisurely walk along the streets and to the now-familiar, rustic entrance of the Métro station. The ground was wet and glistening from it having rained a few hours earlier, but the skies were otherwise clear.

Everything was business as usual, until that moment when it suddenly wasn't.

Guy went down to the platform just as his train was arriving. He and Thomas had been lucky yesterday. This train was crowded almost to packing point, and because of the rain the air was also thick and mustier than it usually was. Guy didn't so much care for that, though, for he was used to it by now - he merely wedged himself amidst the crowd and found himself an overhead handle to grasp (always a struggle, for he wasn't especially tall). A few people squeezed in next to him, a man in a grey suit to his right and a young woman in a miniskirt and heels to his left, all of them blank-faced and thinking only of their destinations as far as Guy was concerned.

People, people everywhere, and not a single one to talk to. But it would have been erroneous to claim that Guy _minded_ , for he liked to think that he kept better company; once the train began moving, he pulled out a book from his satchel, and flipped it open one-handed, poring over it.

Guy loved to read. But better company didn't always mean that he'd get along fine with it _everywhere_ , and admittedly, he found the Métro to be a dfficult place to read in. For one, it was always too loud, and he always seemed to have the awful luck of only carrying books that were a chore to get through. Such was the case now with this book, which the more he thumbed through it the more he was beginning to think that he'd probably jumped into it too young. (He had no references to go by regarding this, none of his friends had read it yet.) The prose was beautiful, for sure, but it was so beautiful it was lulling him to _sleep_. 

Not a good thing to be succumbing to when in a train -

(Something cold brushed over his back)

\- and most certainly not when in a train full of people -

(and oh God, it was _inside his jacket_.)

\- one of whom was now _touching him_.

"...!"

Guy stopped reading. He froze in place, his gaze still fixed on the pages, his entire body tensed like alabaster. All noise and conversation merged into a blur, white noise assaulting his eardrums for several long seconds as he registered that yes, he _was_ being touched by a total stranger and that their hand was running down his body. He had taken the Métro to go to school for four years now, long enough to know that sometimes there were people riding it who sought pleasure in groping others. Oh, he knew what he _should_ have been doing - he could glare, stomp on their feet, or do something to draw attention towards them and make them stop.

But this felt different somehow. The stranger's hand was cool and impersonal, moving so fast that Guy didn't know how anyone would be able to get pleasure out of it. The hand trailed soft and silent up his right-hand side, shot across and squeezed firmly at the side of his chest before withdrawing; the fingers were pale and narrow, almost feminine. Having done so, the hand traced lightly over his shirt and down to his waist, roaming up and down. But those fingers moved with a purpose entirely devoid of sexuality - they were far too quick and calculated, actively edging away from anywhere that might be sensitive, and in fact merely seemed to be _confirming_ in wonder that Guy _really was there_ , from the curve of his raised arm down to his waist and near his hips. They didn't venture below his shirt, nor did they linger in any one place too long; Guy himself physically felt nothing beyond the surface level, merely registering the temperature and pressure of the contact. He was not being violated, certainly not what Guy understood by the term; no, he was being subjected to a clinical _examination_.

The woman next to him eased herself away, unaware of what was happening behind her. Guy carried on standing there, stunned, his fingers trembling around the handle above his head.

The fingers paused at the top of his jeans. Guy was wearing a belt, but they weren't exactly the tightest jeans around, and a relatively slim hand could still venture between the denim, the fabric of his boxers and his skin if it wanted to. This finally lent him both the strength and outrage enough to turn his head and come face to face with his assailant - only for him to lose them all over again as he locked eyes with _him_. It was the man in the grey suit: he was clearly young, maybe twenty-seven at the most, with rectangular silver-rimmed glasses and neatly slicked, curled dark hair. When their gazes met the man _smiled_ at him, his expression so innocently honest and joyful that Guy found himself too disturbed to be angry. And yet at the same time the man was handsome even beneath the pale washed-out lights, cleanly shaved, his clothes close-fit and tailored; he had his arm around the boy's waist, but his hand roamed no further in any direction and his contact remained detached until he finally pulled away.

Then, only then, did everything return to place.  
The rocking of the train as it came to a stop, the conversations nearby, the faint burnt smell of newspaper ink, the rustle of damp coats and umbrellas - all came back into focus, and Guy gasped out, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath all that time. When he turned his head again the man was just getting off the train; strangely enough, even in his otherwise ordinary attire he didn't blend into the crowd, instead standing still on the platform to give Guy one smile, combined with a slight tilt of the head. He was there, his eyes fixed on Guy's, until the train sped away and into the dark tunnels once more.

"What..." Guy whispered, unnoticed once more. Around him the cologne of the man lingered, pomegranate and ginger-spice, and he felt as if he were about to faint at its scent. "... what the... what just..."

He raised a hand and shakily felt over his chest and back. The man's touch had faded away like ice - there had been no after-sensation, no imprint, no sense of his clothes having been brushed out of place. It was almost exactly as if a ghost had passed over him, and that inhuman _lack of feeling_ brought a chill down his spine. It was a godsend that his stop was next, and he stumbled off the train in a hurry, shaking his head and wanting to get to where he understood how things worked as fast as he could. He began to run as soon as he was back overhead, and didn't stop.

Thomas was waiting for him in the classroom when he burst in; "There you are!" he exclaimed with a bright smile, which quickly faded as he saw how pale the other's face was. "... uh, are you okay? You look really sick."

"No. _Yes._ I-"

Guy leaned heavily against the doorway, panting and feeling a hot dryness at the back of his throat; he clenched his eyes shut as his legs gave way. He was conscious, just rather frightened and in desperate need of a drink - Thomas crying out his name and running towards him didn't help matters - and he sank down onto the floor and curled up in an attempt to try to get his breath back. Thankfully no one else was around, he really couldn't handle more than just one person being so close to him now-

"Guy. _Guy!_ What's wrong? _Oh my God_ , if you-"

"K-keep it down," he stammered out, weakly pointing to his side. He had quite the terrible stitch. The younger boy fell silent at once. "I'm _fine_. Honest."

"... If you're as fine as you say you are, then why'd you collapse in the first place?" Thomas whispered; he then blushed almost immediately, realizing how pointless this question was, and the sight of him roused Guy enough that he could manage to get a word in.

"Made a bad mistake and looked at your face," he mumbled, and smirked as best as he could, revelling in Thomas's expression (which was a cross between hysterical laughter and hurt). "I'm only joking, Thom - ugh - could you please... train was late, I ran... all the way... to see you... I... I _really_... need a drink."

He and Thomas were used to making playful jabs at each other and also sulking a little when things weren't working out; Guy hadn't been expecting him to actually get him a drink, not after that comment, and he knew that he would deserve that denial. But something about him 'having come to see him' seemed to resonate with the younger boy and he jumped to it, running out of the room and coming back within seconds with a plastic cup of water. " _Merci,_ " Guy said shakily (by this time sitting against the doorway) before taking the cup and downing all its contents in one go. "ahhh," he mumbled and pressed the cup to his forehead. "... _merci. Merde alors_. What a start to the day."

"Please don't do that again. You really scared me."

"And you think I _wasn't_ freaked out? I'm fine, Thomas," he mustered up a smile and reached out to ruffle the other's hair, a seldom-seen gesture reserved only for when he was feeling particularly affectionate. That was the definitive step to getting the younger boy to relax, as evidenced when he stood up and Thomas reached out to straighten his tie gently. "I won't let it happen again."

"Promise me."

_"Promis juré."_

And it didn't. Soon all of their other classmates had filed in, and the two of them went to their seats and pulled out their books as if nothing of much importance had happened. Once he had calmed down a little, however, he gave endless thought over what had happened, and came up with the reassuring but ultimately useless conclusion that the man very likely _hadn't_ been a pervert. It was difficult for him to understand why, but Guy simply couldn't imagine that he was - his earlier fright had come about from that uncanny absence of warmth, not the actual physical contact. There had been nothing about his touch in itself that had been unpleasant. Plus, his fingers had been so cool and dry that he found it difficult to believe that the other had been aroused at any point, as nauseating that possibility was to think about; but that was all it was, _thought_ instead of concrete proof, and Guy wasn't entirely sure which one was worse.

It was a good thing that they had that test, really, even though he'd been semi-dreading it.  
Language tests necessitated that no one in the class made a noise for two entire hours, and that gave him time to reflect. It would have been a lie to say that he spent the day being able to focus on anything meaningful, but thankfully, no one noticed nor called upon him for answers that day, leaving him free to think as much as he wanted. He received the record he'd been wanting to listen to, thanked Thomas, and went about the rest of the day in contemplative silence. He didn't divulge what had happened to him to Thomas, or any other of his friends - and indeed, never did so.

\-----

Thomas rejoined his daily commute from Wednesday onwards. Guy kept on meaning to buy an umbrella from somewhere, and carried on forgetting.  
For the rest of that school week, the man in the grey suit did not reappear, but Guy made zero progress on his book nonetheless. He hadn't been left distressed by the experience, and felt no reluctance in continuing to use the Métro, but he had taken to keeping an eye out for the man every time he was onboard. Every time the train came to a stop he would peer out of the windows and onto the platform, inspecting everyone who got off and on, feeling both relieved and disappointed that the man was never amongst them.

He did want to see him again, just once. He wanted to _know_ , he wanted to justify how to feel towards him. If he indeed turned out to be little more than a filthy pervert, Guy wouldn't hesitate to call him out and look upon him with contempt, but he couldn't do that if he had no idea of the man's intentions in the first place.

_René: chips s/p_  
 _Thom: crème c._  
 _Guy:_  
 _ Laurent: _

The lunchtime note was coming around, again. Guy wrote down his _lait au chocolat_ as usual and passed it on.  
None of his friends had noticed how guarded he had become in such a short space of time. Just as well. He was hoping to get over it sooner rather than later. It was just a one-time thing, a bizarre experience that one day he wouldn't even remember. He could have been most definitely felt up by someone worse, he could have been _robbed_ , other much worse things could have happened. Guy was too young to realize that such rationalizations were both unhelpful and depressingly common amongst everyone in the world; what happened happened, and there was no disputing that, but he didn't understand the significance of this at the time.

Soon Saturday had rolled around, and around ten in the morning Guy was boarding the Line 2 train from Porte Dauphine again, this time to head over to Montmartre where Thomas's father had a studio. He and Thomas were frequently invited there for coffee, and after they would usually be allowed to play around with the musical equipment there. To both boys, who were interested in heading straight into the music industry after school, those were not opportunities to be missed.

_"Charles de Gaulle - Étoile!"_

Guy closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the rail, already thinking of joining Thomas and his father in the studio, being permitted to use equipment that he himself couldn't even begin to dream of affording for the next several years. Then he opened his eyes again, and there _he_ was, _that man_ in the exact same grey suit and blue shirt, boarding not ten steps away from him. He couldn't believe it. The boy stared, aghast, frozen to his spot as the man glanced in his direction, and they met eyes again. He too clearly remembered Guy, giving him another sunny smile as if nothing had happened between them as the train began to move. He didn't come any closer this time ( _that's at least something,_ the boy told himself in a futile attempt to keep calm) though he kept on glancing at him now and then, clearly pondering on something.

He'd been awaiting the man's presence with curious anticipation all this time, and now that he had it, he had no idea what he wanted to do with it. He most certainly wasn't acting like a pervert, but then he wasn't acting like much of an anything at all. But he was still _there_ and his presence was immensely discomforting; Guy was just considering giving up and fleeing the train at the next station when one of the nearby commuters pushed past him to get to the door, nudging him closer to the suited man in the process.

"...!"

Guy flinched back, his cheeks beginning to flush at the unwanted closeness. The man looked down at him for a moment - then released his grip on the overhead handle as the train halted, quickly drawing out a capped fountain pen and a small notebook (flourished with red and gold) from his pocket. He flipped it open to a random page and wrote down a single word, then held it out gently for the boy to see - and because he was just being _so damned polite_ about it, Guy looked against his better wishes.

[ _Salut_ ]

Guy blinked, taken aback, at the page. Blue ink in narrow-slanted handwriting shone in the white-LED lighting, having not yet dried. "... _S-salut?_ " he offered cautiously, though he drew his jacket tighter around him and backed away warily, unsure of if the man was going to approach. All he did, however, was to smile and straighten his posture, turning his immaculate visage to the window once more.

They rode past two stations in mutual silence. Eventually Guy couldn't take it any more. Edging closer, making sure that the other's briefcase-holding hand was between them, he inched around and stared at the man until their gazes met once more. "I," he began, though he faltered right there, not knowing what exactly to ask. _But what would you even say to him, Guy-Manuel? 'I want to know why you were feeling me up?' You don't know anything about him, or what he could do! Why can't you just walk away, when you still-_

The man raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise, but only for a second before reverting to a look of gentle concern. He briefly held up a hand, signalling for the other to wait, before pulling the notebook out again and hastily writing one more line beneath his initial greeting.

[Please excuse me I am mute]

 _Mute._ Now that was something Guy hadn't expected. (Later he would reflect on this and think himself foolish for missing the signs earlier, but really, he couldn't be blamed in the slightest.) It was strange how even after what had happened, Guy's knee-jerk reaction to reading this was one of sympathy; so he was speechless, he'd had no choice _but_ to communicate via physical means! Only after that did the incredulous resentment return. _Excuse him for... for what exactly_? he thought, throwing the older man what he hoped was a disapproving stare. _For being mute, which isn't my fault nor his own in the first place? For touching me? How's being mute a valid excuse for that?_

The answer, of course, was that it _wasn't._ It was then the man spoke. He snapped his notebook shut to get the boy's attention, stashed it back in his pocket, looked straight into Guy's eyes and said but a single word: _Proust._

_... Huh?_

Or more precisely, he didn't _pronounce_ it, but rather moved his lips in what seemed to correspond only to that word. If he meant something different, it wasn't coming through, and no matter how hard Guy stared at his lips, he couldn't think of anything else that could be read from them. "... _Proust?_ " he asked out loud, bewildered.

The man beamed in response. _Proust,_ he nodded, and gave the boy's hand a gentle squeeze. _Now what on earth is he talking about,_ Guy thought frantically to himself, wondering also whether he should snatch his hand away, but the man let go on his own before he could quite finish that thought. His fingers were just as cool as they had been before, their touch melting away swiftly on Guy's hand. He flexed his own fingers to try to recall the sensation, but what happened instead was that he _remembered_. Of course, _Swann's Way_ , the book that he'd been reading back then - the very book that this man had halted his progress in, the literary equivalent of chloroform! If he too had possessed something to write with, he'd have demanded to know immediately if _Proust_ out of all things had been the sole reason the man had touched him in the first place. He could think of no other reason, after all, and despite everything, Guy actually did feel it unjust to engage this man in verbal questions when he knew he simply could not answer in the same way.

While he was hesitating, however, the speakers beeped in their usual way and the man looked up as the name of the next station was announced. Pulling his briefcase upwards and tucking it between his arm and side, he took out the notebook again - holding the pen lightly between his teeth for ease of movement - and scribbled another message for the boy to see.

[This is my stop]

Guy glanced outside; the platform was just coming into view, the train slowing down, and he recognized where they were. _Pigalle_ , he noted in a murmur, before turning to the man. "I... get off at Anvers," he mumbled, half hoping that he wouldn't hear, but judging by the other's kind expression it was evident that he had. "well, I, um, goodbye... _désolé_ , I don't know your name."

The train came to a halt with a low whooshing noise. The man glanced at the doors as the cheerful announcement - _attention à la marche en descendant du train!_ \- sounded and the doors began to slide open; then with sudden assurance he uncapped his pen and scribbled something down for the last time. Within seconds he had torn the page out from his notebook, thrust it into Guy's hands and had followed the rush of commuters leaving the train, silently bidding him an _au revoir_ with the barest movement of his lips and the raise of his hand. Guy stared back at him, mesmerized, even as a new load of passengers got on and crowded his vision, even as the doors closed and the train began moving again.

None of this had taken longer than a minute.

 _What has happened to me?_ was his first conscious thought. Blankly he stared around him and down at his jacket and bag, seeing that they were there and yet feeling numb about their continued presence - his parents had warned him so many times about pickpockets in the Métro before, that he was to respect their ingenious craft by remaining ever more alert to what they might do. For years he'd taken that advice to heart and had guarded his possessions most faithfully - and now, within a week he had lost an umbrella and had a lengthy lapse in awareness there.

" _Anvers!_ " the announcement chirped, startling him out of _that_ reverie. Only then did he realize that the piece of paper was still in his hand. He waited until he'd left the train to unfold it and read what it said; only a single word, devoid of coherent meaning, was written there. Guy read it several times over, looked up at the exit sign, then back down at the piece of paper again. Whatever he'd gotten himself into, he knew that he wouldn't be able to make sense of it for a while, and wasn't sure how he felt about that.

[ _Roulé_ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It reads as rather disjointed and staccatoed because I'm really trying to play up the dreamlike angle here. Roulé is more complicated a character than Crydamoure in 'La Chanson d'un Ange' if I do this right.  
> This was only a short Prologue of sorts; the next chapters will become progressively better, I'm sure they will!
> 
> * 'Fingerspitzengefühl' is a German word translating to 'tact', or literally 'fingertip-feeling'.  
> * Re: Picardy, it was voted one of the worst/gloomiest regions you could live in within France, but more broadly you might want to search 'French unhappiness puzzle' for the broad phenomenon of the melancholy French.  
> * René's chip flavours are ' _ail/romarin_ (garlic/rosemary)' and ' _sel/poivre_ (salt/pepper)'.  
>  * If you're familiar with the Pigalle area, you already know something more about Roulé.
> 
> Please comment if you liked it. Every comment really helps, especially so if constructive.
> 
> [ **EDIT (27/Sep/2014):** This edit begins the reworking/smoothing-out of Wanderjahre's text and universe, announced a few days ago in my blog. Edits are minor in this chapter; a few things were corrected, some italicized text eliminated, there's a small tidbit about Guy's neckties and Guy's conversation with René is slightly longer. Original chapter publication date is 12/May/2014.]


	2. Waldeinsamkeit

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 02) - '** _Waldeinsamkeit'_

\------------------

From then on, the man in the grey suit became a regular sight during his journeys.

On Monday, Guy was chatting away about the Pet Shop Boys record with Thomas by his side, both of them leaning against the same rail, when out of his eye he spotted the man getting on from the far side of their carriage. He quickly stole a look towards the station name - _Charles de Gaulle - Étoile_ , again - and then towards the man, who'd also noticed him. He didn't approach this time, being too far away for anyone to nudge them closer (Thomas being there was a factor too, no doubt), but whenever Guy glanced at him, he could see the man staring right back with a calm, reassured expression on his face.

"- And don't get me wrong on this one, Guy, but I did think 'Domino Dancing' falls flat. I mean it's a _good song_ and if you put it on for me _hell yeah_ I would still dance to it but it just doesn't have that _kick_. Papa seemed to think the same so it's probably not just me, I was a little let - Guy? Are you okay?"

"Mmm," he mumbled, turned his back in the man's direction, and nodded at Thomas. "... _d'accord_."

When their stop approached, Guy grasped the younger boy's hand and nigh dragged him off the train, not wanting to look back or stay in there any longer. (Thomas wasn't complaining, and closed his soft hand tightly around the other's all the way to the front gates, perplexed but cheerful.) Seeing the man in there had confirmed for him that from now they were sharing commutes, and that in some odd way, that both he and the man were _connected_.

Tuesdays were going to be difficult, now. Whatever was he going to do without Thomas?

Guy didn't know if he was being brave, or recklessly stupid, by not telling anyone. (He suspected the latter.)  
But he'd already made some conversation with the man, was convinced that he definitely wasn't a pervert, and his recklessness was over half fueled not by faux-bravado but personal curiosity. He wouldn't have wanted to go near the Métro again, otherwise. When Tuesday morning rolled around and the obligatory morning call with Thomas was over, Guy buttoned up his uniform jacket, straightened his tie, and headed to the station with a determined look set on his face. He would either find out more, fight back or both, but he wasn't going to _hide_. The dreaded Proust novel was still in his bag, but he didn't reach for it, holding onto the overhead handle instead and staring very intensely out of the window as he waited for the man to board.

The train stopped, the now-familiar combination of grey and blue came into sight, and Guy exhaled slowly to calm his nerves. His heart was already picking up its pace. The man saw him and immediately moved to stand right next to him, their bodies near brushing, his sweet light cologne washing over Guy as before.

 _Salut,_ he greeted the boy, saying it twice for clarification, the breath from his soundless utterance tickling his ear. _Salut._ He stretched out his hand for the handle, and Guy could see the cuff of his blue shirt peeking out slightly past his jacket sleeve. Then ever-so-naturally - but unnaturally enough to make Guy tense up at the same time - he pressed his upper body against the boy's, nothing else but that, for one long minute. Enough for Guy to feel the faint contours of his muscles and his largely-absent body heat, before he moved away and stood like a statue for the rest of the ride. He got off just before Villiers this time, and as he disembarked he _stroked_ the side of Guy's face with his slim, cool hand, his touch so light that it could have been mistaken as accidental.

Guy hadn't responded to any of those advances, and was expressionless as he watched the man leave; but as the train sped away and towards his destination, he could feel his heartbeat spiraling out of control, mind racing with _questions_ , becoming more intense by the minute. It was a feeling akin to breaking out in fever, all the blood rushing to his head - he wanted to _know_ about this man, _so much_ , more than he'd ever wanted to know anything before. Who he was, whether his name _really_ was Roulé, why he'd singled out _Guy_ out of all people - he wanted to know what this man _wanted_ , because he could sense that it was something out of the ordinary, and he considered himself much too ordinary to be of any assistance. Why _him?_

His world was being disrupted, he was sure that this man was the cause, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted it to continue or not - but he wanted to _find out_. This man who had so thoroughly dismantled his personal space - this man, who caused his heart to drum against his ribcage with anticipation both unwanted and intense - Guy had to do _something_ about him, he simply could not stand his curiosity any longer.

The next day, he took a hoodie and cap with him to school, alongside a different bag altogether, stashing the clothing in his locker until it was time to go home; with some difficulty he persuaded Thomas to go home ahead of him, making up a low-key but convincing story about having to ask for help with his Physics homework. Guy was in reality quite good at Physics, whilst Thomas was not, and this proved to be an advantage - the younger boy withdrew graciously as soon as he heard the excuse, inferring that if _Guy_ needed help in this subject, he certainly had no chance of providing it, and would indeed benefit himself from getting home to work on it as soon as possible.

Guy did feel awful about it, of course. He wasn't fond of having to deceive _anybody_ , let alone his best friend. But today, it had to be done.

The uniform jacket was folded up neatly and stashed in his bag, and Guy tucked his shirt into his trousers before pulling on his hoodie and cap, careful to keep his hair contained. He knew that this was an irrational gamble even before he set foot in Villiers Station; he had no actual guarantee that he would see the man, and it wasn't as if he'd be able to pull this off more than a couple of times. But somehow he had the curious self-assurance that the man would appear to him if he were alone, and even if that theory turned out to be untrue - well, what of it? All he'd done was to take a little longer getting home. Instead of his usual train back he went on the one that continued towards Montmartre, found a rare seat, sat down, crossed his arms, and began to _observe_.

One station passed, then two, with no sight of him. Guy wasn't disappointed, however; if he'd assumed correctly, the man usually got on far earlier in the line than Villiers, and could be riding in a totally different part of the train than the one he currently was in. The real test wasn't until later; either he would see the man at Pigalle, or he would need to try again at Charles de Gaulle - Étoile where the man seemed to get on most often. Sure enough, when Guy left the train at Pigalle and stood still, looking around, he spotted that familiar grey suit and shirt in less than five seconds. _So I was right!_ he remarked silently, pleased at his own deduction; fueled with that and his somewhat-precarious desire to go as far as he could, he rapidly followed in the man's footsteps.

Pigalle, an infamous zone of a famous city.  
Guy kept his head down, following only the sight and sound of the man's shoes on the pavement. He was by no means new to this district, but he was at a strange age for it - some people his age found it a paradise, some still found it outrageous, he himself hadn't had time to develop an opinion until now, and his immediate reaction was _discomfort_. Even then, it wasn't anything to do with himself but rather what it could mean for the other man. Guy had wondered about the other's occupation for a while now: someone who was as neatly dressed as he and carried a briefcase, yet never looked overworked, apparently commuted during Saturdays (or followed the boy around, which was no less troubling) and was devoid of speech? What could he expect out of someone like that? Guy supposed that the man could be working in an office, but that just didn't seem _right_. He was too well-dressed for for office work, his grey suit having threads of pearly-silver woven into it at a closer glance, and no matter how Guy looked at it he was too immaculately groomed to have spent any part of his day in imaginable stress. But at the same time, if he were a lawyer, doctor or doing anything of note, Guy couldn't fathom why he would be taking the Métro so persistently, nor why he was heading towards Pigalle out of all places at odd times of the day.

Well, that wasn't _quite_ true.  
He _had_ made a guess. He was just hoping that it wouldn't be true, that was all.

The man turned left. Guy followed. Somewhere far behind them was the Moulin Rouge. Further into the streets wound with drunken pleasantries and shadowed eroticism they went, Guy feeling more out of place by the second; within a minute or two, however, the man stopped and stood by a perfectly ordinary-looking building, glancing at the billboard above for only a second before going in. He was faintly visible by what looked like the reception area, looking as if he were trying to make an inquiry, so he probably wasn't going to stay for long. The boy quickly moved out of the way and waited outside, looking up properly for the first time to check the road behind him and making a mental note of his surroundings.

 _Thank heavens it's getting dark,_ he thought. Counter-intuitive, but Guy being a wary Parisian youth who knew the city well and was relatively quick on his feet, he could afford to think in that way. Had he not been concerned only with hiding, he would have held a very different opinion of his situation altogether.

The suited man was in there for a while. A taxi pulled up in front of Guy and a short, nervous-looking man left it, giving the driver his cash absent-mindedly and holding his suit jacket over his shoulder. He walked straight past Guy and into the building as well, and the moment he disappeared the boy had a sudden, powerful feeling of malaise deep inside him; it came on so quickly, feeling almost like an entire rainforest of butterflies had invaded his stomach, and he'd barely even registered it when he saw the man re-emerge from the building - with his right arm tight around 'Roulé' and his other hand slipping a plump white envelope into the other's suit jacket.

_Oh my God._

His suspicions had proved to be correct.  
Pigalle housed a notorious red-light district. That building was clearly a brothel of some kind. 'Roulé' was an _escort._

By all intents and purposes, Guy was now good as trespassing in what was a strictly-private (and _physical_ , oh God, _insanely physical_ ) transaction, and it would have suited him well to leave. But once the wave of shock had passed he found himself numbly tailing them again, despite no longer knowing where that journey would take him - what if they ended up going to some kind of bar, restaurant or hotel? He certainly had no chance of following them further if that were the case, and would be left alone with only his imagination to tide him over. And as unaccustomed he was to sexuality, Guy was hardly ignorant, and he possessed an imagination that was overly vivid. "What the fuck am I even _doing_ ," he breathed to himself, horrified, but what was by this point a wretched fascination pushed him to keep on going.

They did not walk for long. A few more turns and Guy found himself facing a line of apartment blocks, the noise of the city becoming muted as they entered suburbia; the two men ahead of him walked towards one that was immediately in front of them, heading into the entrance, so Guy stayed further back and sat himself down on a bench where he could observe the building. The apartment complex as a whole was modern, dull and grey compared to others but not by any means derelict, and it was one of those complexes featuring a long row of doors with a broad passageway linking them all. This meant that Guy could soon see the two men emerging from the lift and towards a door, and he also noticed that 'Roulé' was the one holding the key.

_... So that's where he lives... Fourth floor, left hand side... the door at the very end._

The shorter man entered first, and was gone. The man in the grey suit held the door open for him, and was seemingly about to go in himself - before pausing, and turning around fully to stare in the general direction of where Guy was sitting. The boy hastily downcast his eyes, although he did not move, not wanting to give himself away; within a couple of seconds he heard the faint clang of the apartment door shutting, and that was the cue for him to get up and run back the way he came.

"I don't believe this," he whispered frantically to himself as he hurried along the darkening streets. "so he really was a... then what... what _was_ he trying to..."

The man had looked entirely too sane for it, but Guy was now beginning to wonder if he'd been trying to _proposition him_ in the Métro, and that thought disturbed him so heavily that he was shaking throughout his way back to Pigalle Station and the ride back home. He had been thrown headfirst into a world he could not even begin to fathom, and all the way that question haunted him again and again: _why me?_

Guy did not sleep well that night. He had no idea that in less than three days his perception of the suited man would change, and that in the weeks to come the comfortable framework of his mind would shatter irrevocably, and vastly, for the better. As he tossed and turned in bed he missed his friends, especially Thomas, and severely debated with himself as to whether he should tell them; but none of this made sense to himself, why should it make any sense to _them?_ So he ultimately ended up lying there, left without answers, silently reciting German adjective endings according to case in a highly-desperate attempt to lull himself to sleep. He could have done with a good book or a song to distract him into dreams, as he had done in the past, but that man had quite drawn out the enjoyment of both out of his head.

(He didn't even get the ones for the accusative all correct. That annoyed him throughout the entire next day.)

\-----

But all of that was in the future, albeit not far off, and what mattered the most was the present. And what was true now was that Guy had failed his English test, and would need to take another one in due time. He wasn't all that surprised. He'd _expected_ to fail. Life wasn't anything like those stories where the protagonist could just breeze past everything and never struggle until they needed to, after all, and he knew with almost one hundred percent certainty that his life was not a _story_. (What a ridiculous idea!) He wasn't initially even upset about it, his life having been too busy for that lately, but his friends were sympathetic and he was glad for their understanding.

"Papa invited us around again," Thomas said to him at lunch, it being his turn to distribute the snacks; he even opened Guy's chocolate milk for him before passing it towards him. "tomorrow, though, he says he's off somewhere for the weekend, sorry for the short notice..."

"Tomorrow," Guy repeated, taking a thoughtful sip out of the bottle, licking away the imprint that his mouth had left on the rim. "... right after school?"

" _Oui._ He's cooking for us."

That made him smile. Both he and Thomas let out just after two o'clock on a Friday, giving them plenty of time; not only that, Daniel Vangarde, Thomas's father, was also one of the best cooks he'd had the pleasure of knowing. "I'd love to come."

" _Super!_ I'll tell him when I get home," Laurent approached at this point, having been held back a few minutes by the teacher. " _Laurent! Ça va?_ "

" _Ça va_ ," he sat down and raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Guy, gesturing towards the English test still laid out on the table. He didn't know how well the other had done yet. "... _ça va?_ "

Guy shrugged. " _Ça va._ "

But Laurent wasn't fooled. It was something about Guy's tone. " _Ça va?_ " he repeated with more emphasis, raising his eyebrows; when the other boy tapped at his test as an invitation to look, he did so, and immediately became more sympathetic. "... _ohh! Desolé. Ça va aller, ne t'en fais pas._ "

" _Oh, ça va!_ " René interjected, nudging Laurent on the shoulder and grinning. " _enough_ already. I took a sip of your Orangina. I hope you don't mind."

"I mind _very_ much, you're going to pay me back for that. How many sips are there in an Orangina? I'm going to keep count and work out how much a sip is worth, just you wait," René effectively stopped grinning at this and rolled his eyes, mumbling about the other being so miserly over a few centimes. "also, Thomas. Sabine gave this to me _and_ told me to give it to _you_."

The younger boy looked. Almost as soon as he did, he blushed like he was on fire and scrambled for the envelope, hiding it quickly in his bag; from the kiss-mark sticker on it, it was obvious what the message within contained. They all knew it: René was actively smirking, Laurent was trying (much to his credit) to keep a straight face and failing, and only Guy could muster up a look of vague sympathy towards his friend. Oh, they certainly _spoke_ nothing of it, but it was obvious to them that Thomas had an awkward situation in hand, and a curious mixture of pity and _schadenfreude_ was in the air.

Only Laurent out of all of them had a girlfriend. She was called Jacqueline, was tall and quiet with a slightly freckled face, and was by all means a lovely, gentle soul; she attended a school in the eighteenth _arrondissement_ , though, so they only ever caught glimpses of her during the weekend or during holidays. Her and Laurent seemed casual, but they were clearly taken by each other to some extent, that much was obvious.  
René had broken up with his girlfriend in January, and hadn't looked for another since.  
Excepting this letter, Thomas had gone out with a girl a year ago, but that hadn't ever went anywhere and they'd parted after a month. (He'd later confided in Guy that they'd never even kissed.)  
Guy hadn't ever had a significant other, and quite frankly, was far more interested right now in why the English language insisted on ' _making a decision_ ' instead of ' _taking_ '. " _Je prends une décision_ ," he was still muttering to himself ten minutes later, when they were returning to their classes. "... ' _making'?_ What does that make, _je... 'fais'... une décision?_ I just don't get it. As if you could _create_ whatever choice you wanted out of thin air!"

It was something he'd known how to say _already_ in English, and the more he thought about it, the more infuriated he became. He'd simply forgotten it while thinking about Roulé.  
Damn that man! When would this nonsense end? This sentiment even followed him all the way to Daniel Vangarde's studio the next afternoon (though thankfully it ebbed somewhat for the duration of his visit), purely by virtue of it being in Montmartre. Right now, somewhere out there - far closer to him than he was comfortable with - the suited man was probably doing his work. He might even be entertaining a client who lived near here, he could have passed by Thomas or his father on the streets sometime in the past, and neither of them would have known anything about that man.

Surrealism at its highest.

\-----

A cork was popped, the corkscrew put aside - " _ou est les verres? - Guillaume, s'il vous plait?"_ \- and after a few moments' pause, the peach-pink liquid within the bottle was poured into three glasses with a delicate hand. The liquid fizzed audibly and pleasantly as it hit and swirled inside the glass, and Guy with an artisan's pride examined the champagne he'd poured before looking up.

"Is that enough for everyone?"

"Half full?" Thomas hollered from the sofa. He'd been searching for the remote to turn the TV off; after a couple of hours of playing around with the mixers and instruments, they'd 'retired' for the day and had sat down to a hearty dinner of lamb ragout with honey, olives, carrots and new potatoes with Thomas's father. Now they were about to have dessert, a small baked baba au rhum for the three of them: it was Daniel's signature dessert, rich, densely baked cake soaked in vanilla-boiled sugar syrup and topped with cold sweet custard. (He usually soaked it in rum as well, but had been mindful of the fact that Guy had to walk home.) Guy checked again and responded in the positive. "that's enough for me, then, _oui!_ Don't know what Papa feels about it."

Guy glanced next to him. Daniel Vangarde stood by the oven, absent-mindedly pushing the oven door closed with one foot as he poured the custard into their respective dessert plates. The boy wondered if he'd heard what Thomas had said, but watching him made it obvious that he hadn't, being too engrossed in what he was doing. A family trait, and one that Guy empathized completely with.

"Daniel," he said, and paused, inwardly marveling. _Daniel.  
_ That was his name, yes, but Guy was more fascinated with what it meant for him to be saying it out loud. Daniel Vangarde had always been a figure of awe for Guy, yet at the same time a necessarily _familiar_ one. They had known each other for a long time now - Guy found him casual and friendly, but often detected a note of undeniable _protectiveness_ in the man that he never knew what to make of. He regarded Guy almost as a second son of sorts, and the boy swore sometimes that he could feel in the way Daniel treated him a paternal affection almost as intense as his own father's; it was not at all unpleasant, he was delighted by it rather, but he did feel as if that element to his and Thomas's relationship tied the two of them together in a way distinct to merely being friends. He and Daniel were just as close to each other as Thomas was to Daniel, but at the same time they could not regard nor refer to each other as a father and son. When he'd first met Thomas's father he'd referred to the other as 'Monsieur Vangarde' out of learned politeness; it hadn't been long before he'd taken to the name 'Daniel' and had thought it wonderful to be so cool and informal with him; but now he was a near-adult himself, and he almost felt as if he wanted to revert to 'Monsieur' again, just to show his respect and awe in the most basic way he knew how to.

_"Oui, Guillaume?"_

Now 'Daniel' was no longer just a name that had required permission from the man's part for him to use - no, it was as if they too were friends on an equal level, in the way he and Thomas were friends. On one hand that was an entirely new, exciting level of knowledge, but on the other hand, it made him feel like a bird teetering out of its nest, ready to fly off into to unknown with no support behind it for once. "Oh, nothing," Guy murmured, somewhat dazed at his own thoughts, before he rapidly shook his head and resumed with a slight blush. "I mean - is that enough champagne for you?"

Daniel looked up when he was satisfied that everything was perfect, glanced at the champagne flutes, and grinned wide. "A centimeter's worth more for me, if you wouldn't mind," he said quietly, and when Guy did as asked, he thanked him, took up his glass and downed the extra to match the level of champagne in the other glasses again. " _shh_!" he whispered, gave Guy a playful nudge and wink, and left the kitchen with the plates as if nothing had happened. Guy followed suit with the glasses, shaking his head in amusement.

"Is it done?"

" _Oui,_ Thomas, come on through."

Thomas joined them around the dining table as soon as Guy had called, beaming and eager; he at first made as if to make himself comfortable next to Guy, then did a double take and looked back at both his friend and father, suddenly unsure how to proceed. It wasn't immediately obvious to him where everyone was planning to sit, and besides - "Oh..."

_"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"_

"I kind of want to sit next to you... but with Papa too."

The chair at the head of the table was filled with a pile of books and Daniel's tie, so it couldn't be used. The plates were laid out with two on one side of the table and one on the other side; three people could easily fit on one side of it, however, and Daniel picked up his own plate and glass as soon as he realized this. "Then I'll move to your side of the table, boys, it's no problem at all. If you could move down one, Guy?"

"But it feels strange leaving all of those empty spaces on the other side..."

This was very much a Thomas thing, being _particular_. Guy and Daniel shared glances, then in perfect unison, took their jackets off the backs of their respective chairs and tossed them over to occupy the ones on the opposite side. The younger boy's expression shifted rapidly from confused to delighted (and also, just the _tiniest_ bit apologetic); "could I get a spoon?" was Guy's only comment as he sat down on the furthest end of the table, with Daniel sitting at the other end and leaving a space for Thomas in the middle.

"I'll get them," Thomas said, giddy with pleasure. He was still beaming from ear to ear when he left.

Aside from that, though, conversation through dessert was standard, perhaps even subdued. Thomas's father was a man of many words, just like Thomas, but he had more experience behind him and was careful to choose only the ones that mattered - unlike the younger boy, who could often ramble a mile a minute without ever getting to the desired topic, this meant that his words often came in short, practiced, and relevant bursts instead of truly flowing. He would comment on something to Thomas (in this case, how long his hair was getting); Thomas in turn would respond in a lengthy manner (in this case, explaining that he was actively trying to grow it out so his curls would stand out more vividly, and that he was thinking of maybe dying it soon, what colour it ought to be, whether black would look good on him, etc); once things had progressed that far, Daniel would either nod and let the conversation fade into a content silence, or would elaborate on the topic in his own eloquent manner to end it altogether. Guy, observing - and he was _very often_ observing, as he said so little - was always fascinated and in a way honoured to see this difference between generations, and today was no exception: "So everything's fine? No boy or girl getting between the two of you?"

"No, Papa, of course not!"

"Good. It's not the time for that yet. What _was_ the saying? _Two mountains can't come together, but two people can._ Most two people have _some_ common ground, and oftentimes that common ground isn't easy to diminish. But the ones that are easiest to fade, like... between two people who aren't related in the slightest, keeping that is what makes friendship so precious," the man gestured with his spoon before taking the final mouthful and setting it down. "... Thomas, take care of Guy. Guy, take care of my son and watch him _very_ closely when he's drinking alcohol, at least until next January."

"I will, Daniel."

"That's all I could have asked for. Knowing that you're both all right helps me sleep at night, it reassures me: _Vangarde, there are many things you could have done better in life, but you've got to admit that this is the crux of things when it comes to your son and his best friend. You did okay_ ," he stacked the plates neatly, leaned back and reached for the ashtray. "at my age, you stop thinking of the things to do in the future and start reviewing what you've already done, almost as if you could go back in time and change how things had been done. Sometimes it's nothing but tears and regret, but I tell you, boys, I look at the two of you and all I feel is eternal sunshine and pats on the back for myself," he pulled the ashtray closer to himself, chuckling, and lit himself a cigarette. Thomas leaned over. "yes, my son."

"About-" the younger boy gestured to the cigarette and ashtray. "- those..."

"Mm-hmm, about those. Beautiful ashtray, I know. Your mother bought it for me the Christmas before you were born."

Guy laughed out loud at that, though he quickly managed to stop himself. (He wasn't meant to be laughing at Daniel's jokes, because 'that'd only make him do it more', as Thomas had put it at some point in the past - but it was hard.) "That's not what I meant," Thomas protested, though he was giggling as well. "I meant _those._ Will you let me have one someday?"

" _Non, non_ ," Daniel laughed, patting his son heartily on the back. "that's not according to plan at all, my boy!"

"The _plan_? What plan?"

"If you're going to smoke, Thomas, I'd much rather your friends - or _someone_ \- drew you into it. You only get to find out once in your life if your child's started smoking, after all! After that it's either they carry on or they quit. It's not a _surprise_. And I'm looking forward to exercising my every last shred of responsiblity as a father should that ever happen to you," Thomas, who'd been listening with a look of mixed befuddlement and disbelief, opened his mouth there as if to interrupt. "I can imagine it even now. You'll come home one day, and maybe there's a distinctive aroma of Marlboro hanging around you. Only _don't_ smoke Marlboro. Gauloises. _Filtered._ I won't have unfiltered in the house! What was I talking about? Oh yes, or maybe one day you're hanging up your coat after you get back from school and there's a tell-tale rectangular outline visible in your pocket. Maybe you develop a habit of going outside often, and when we ask you what's up, you'll tell us that you're having a nice walk around the block, nothing more, except that the nice walk around the block is really a cigarette. Either I'll find out first, or your mother will - and the telling-off we'll give you afterwards, I can't wait for it! - we'd talk about how smoking ends in nothing but sickness and misery and how you're too young for those anyway. We'll confiscate all your cigarettes and ground you for a week, then later on I'll come upstairs, give you a hug, tell you that you'll be fine as long as you only keep to a casual puff now and then, that we love you, smoker or not, and show you where they sell the brands you want for cheap because the ones you have will probably be awful. When you're young and either don't know or can't afford the finer brands - or if you've been given some by someone else, probably not much older than you are - that's to be expected. And that's what I expect of you when it comes to smoking, that's where the _romance_ is," he inhaled quickly, turned his head away to exhale, and turned back with his head inclined in a brief apology; but his eyes were twinkling. "I won't get to feel as responsible if you just came up to me and asked politely to learn it! You have to be _charmed_ into smoking, you see, by somebody reliable and charismatic and _incredibly_ naughty. The more outwardly well-behaved the better, so I can sit you down, scold the two of you and secretly be _obscenely_ happy about it. Someone - why, someone like our very own Guillaume, _he'd_ do!"

Guy let out a quiet 'oh!' and stifled a laugh into his hand. Thomas had been steadily getting more and more red in the face during this monologue, rather mortified as he was wont to do during the inevitable 'embarrassing parental figure' moment, but this was the kicker. "Papa..." he mumbled, turning very pink, looking as if he wanted to disappear beneath the collar of his shirt altogether. Daniel merely chuckled, reached out with an arm, and pulled his son into a light hug as he finished off the cigarette. And in the midst of this Guy only watched, amused and silent, watching the strands of smoke weaving themselves (and fading) into the air; this too was something they trusted him with, he thought, when it came to his acting as a guardian for Thomas. As whimsical as it was, he couldn't say that he disagreed with that notion at all - and besides, the thought had brought him warmth and quite a bit of cheer. What wasn't to like?

\-----

"Play it again, Thom."

The younger boy grinned from the other side of the sofa, twisting a chocolate-bar wrapper around his fingers. Daniel had withdrawn to his own room after the cigarette break; the two boys, now left to their own devices, were lounging around snacking on chocolate and listening to Yellow Magic Orchestra. "Again? This is the fourth time in a row."

"I once listened to the entirety of 'The Wall' eleven times in one day. Your point?"

" _Touché._ I bet you danced like a maniac to it for hours, too."

"You know me so well, Thomas," and it was true. Guy swore sometimes that only he and Thomas thought of that album as a fine example of disco. The younger boy reached over and put the record on to play again, and Guy watched with a wistful look on his face. "... shame that there won't be anything like this from YMO ever again. That's the only bad thing about the good things in life, that they eventually come to an end."

Thomas brushed a curl of his hair behind his ear. "Then we'll make something even better," he said, all matter-of-fact and assured as he lay down again next to Guy. " _something_ has to end for something new and better to begin, isn't that right? It's one of the things Papa told me when I broke that record of his last year, I've not broken a single thing since, let alone records."

Guy smirked and glanced down at him. "That's true. You've not broken anything. Including that stuttering habit of yours."

He was being a little mean; he'd known it the moment he thought of that response, and yet he'd said it anyway. Thomas had a habit of stuttering whenever he was distressed or being put on the spot, and while it was rare that Guy pointed it out, there were times that he was tempted to do so for reasons no more defined than 'wanting to tease'. The younger boy's cheeks flushed in both embarrassment and defensiveness. "It's not a _habit,_ " he retorted, audibly taking care not to stammer over his words; Guy, having not meant any actual malice, quickly nodded and ruffled the other's hair as a silent move of appeasement. "it's not even something I can control, that's not f-fair of you - oh, bother! Go _away._ When are you even meant to be back home?"

" _Je sais, Thomas, je sais_ ," the older boy coaxed, but checked the time nonetheless, wanting to show his sincerity. "... right about now, probably, I want to be home before it gets too dark."

"All right then, I'll walk you to the station."

"You sure? By all rights you should be leaving me to soak in the rain after what I said."

"Silly," Thomas exclaimed with a theatrical sigh, and patted Guy on the cheek. "so _don't_ go around saying things you'll be sorry for saying later on! I usually think you'd be more sensible about stuff like this, but there are times when I look at you and go: you know, Guy-Manuel _really is a kid_ just like I am. I can't wait until we're both older and classier and don't need this nonsense."

These were perceptive words from the younger boy. If it'd been said a couple of weeks ago, Guy would have taken full notice of it as valid advice.  
But something about _being older_ was the only thing that fully resonated within him this time around - combined with Thomas's touch on his cheek, he was reminded of Roulé again, and fell suddenly silent as he stared out of the window. _Roulé_. He was still seeing the man around (though he hadn't approached Guy whenever he was with Thomas), staring at him every morning with some kind of purpose; now that school had let out, he had the urge to go back and talk to him. It was utterly mad an idea, sure, not to mention _dangerous_ at this time of the day, but at the same time he felt it to be inevitable.

"Guy?"

"Hmm?"

" _Penny for your thoughts_?"

The older boy shook his head with a laugh. " _No way, they're worth more than that_ ," he responded in the like, slowly raising his upper body off the sofa to sit up properly again. (He had no idea what a penny was worth compared to francs or centimes but he couldn't imagine that it was a lot.) "... though they weren't anything serious. Anyway, it's getting late, I think I'm going to go now, Thomas."

It was better to get it over and done with.

"... Walk with me to Anvers?"

 _For luck,_ Guy silently added after that. He would need it.

"Sure! Let me get my hoodie."

While Guy hadn't intended his previous words as a prediction, it was indeed raining when they left the studio at ten to six. Guy still hadn't gotten himself an umbrella, and Thomas didn't have one on him either, so they had no choice but to soak in the rain together and endure it. Thankfully it wasn't heavy rain, nor were they bothered by it, and it was petering off into nothing anyway by the time they'd reached Anvers Station. "And _there_ we are," Thomas laughed, wriggling free of his hoodie as soon as he registered that it would be okay; his shirt rode up a little as he did so, exposing his stomach, and Guy sighed and shook his head with amusement before pulling it down for him. "thanks. Call me sometime in the evening, when you get back."

"I will, have a good weekend, Thomas!"

" _Bonne soirée, Guy-Manuel, au revoir_ ," Thomas cried, waving him off with a bright smile. Guy waved back, watched the younger boy tie the hoodie around his waist and hurry off into the distance; the moment he was out of sight, he turned the other way, took a deep breath, and began to walk down the Boulevard de Rochechouart instead, pulling his jacket tighter against his body and a determined look set on his face. He continued onto the Boulevard de Clichy, turned left at Place Pigalle, and was soon retracing that fateful road he had taken two days ago. Nothing much had changed, except that it was darker and more lights were on as the area began to come to life; he kept his head down, wishing rather that he'd had his own hoodie with him. As he and Thomas had gone straight to the studio after school, he was still dressed in his uniform (though he'd stashed the tie in his bag), and something about it made him feel out of place and slightly childish and _that was not a good thing to be feeling_ in what was technically the outskirts of a red-light district. Even as he entered the apartment building and pressed the button for the fourth floor, his mind battled with him, telling him that it wasn't too late to go back - he repeatedly pushed said thought away, politely but as firmly as possible.

No one could fault him on his perseverance. That much was certain.

Guy left the elevator, and immediately heard the clang of a front door opening somewhere far down the hallway. When he peered in the general direction of where the suited man lived, he saw a middle-aged woman stepping out of that door, and hastily withdrew towards the elevator, though he did not stand directly in front of it. " _À bientôt, Roulé,_ " he heard her calling as she left. (So it _was_ all right to call him Roulé.) There was no reply, and neither the woman nor Guy expected one to come. Her heels made a sharp clicking sound on the flooring, along with the slightest squeak as she turned right near Guy and walked straight past him. She pressed the elevator button, and because the boy had just come out of it himself, the doors opened effortlessly then closed again, leaving him in silence.

What now?

He'd come this far already, and the road back home was going to be as uncomfortable as the road to here. He might as well carry on. So he made his way down the corridor, noticing that the door was already wide open; the doorway seemed to exert upon him an odd pull of some sort, but even though it Guy remembered his manners, and knocked twice for courtesy before he walked in.

The apartment was clean and very sparsely decorated, was the first thing he noticed. The walls were dove-white, and the furniture were all in varying shades of grey or black; there were the occasional startling flashes of colour, mostly coming from the small, miscellaneous items scattered around the place, but nothing about the place looked _personal._ It looked more like a showroom that someone had stumbled into and began living in by chance. It was also very poorly lit - for some reason, everything seemed heavily shadowed, even though the skies were still bright outside and a lamp in the kitchen was on. There was a stereo in the living room, but no television, and a bookcase stocked not even halfway, though many of the books looked extremely well-thumbed through. A black glass table sat by the couch, with a clean, empty ashtray set on its surface, alongside a thick notepad and a pen.

_He must get through so much paper._

Come to think of it, that pen-and-notepad combination was ubiquitous here. A quick glance around the apartment - living room, kitchen, the bar, even atop the shoe-rack by the door - revealed no less than seven of them altogether, and Guy didn't doubt that there would be more. The pens were all either blue or black, too. Guy exhaled in a quiet hiss through his teeth; the man must be in here somewhere, he really should seek him out.

"... _Allô?_ " the boy called out, even though he already knew that Roulé was incapable of answering, and was immediately rewarded with a faint splashing noise from the bathroom. The door was mostly shut, but the lights were on. He walked over to the door and knocked sharply. "... can I come in? It's... it's _me_ , if that made sense... Keep silent and I'll... just... go away."

He fell silent. There was another splash, Taking that as his cue, Guy peered through the door, blinking at the sight in front of him, before slowly opening it. The man was sitting in the bath, surrounded by soft-scented bubbles and with a book at hand, though it was being held outside of the bath and only loosely as he smiled up without apprehension at his new visitor. His hair was wet, so was his face and every inch of skin that Guy could see, down to his well-unbuttoned shirt-

_His shirt?_

Guy did a double take. It wasn't just that either: he was dressed in the full ensemble, trousers, socks, a loose bowtie around his collar and all, his slim glasses set aside on the sink. When he glanced at the mirrors and the tiled walls he saw no steam. Roulé had been taking a bath in _cold water_ with his _clothes on._

"What the _christ!_ " he blurted out. Roulé's expression remained entirely pleasant, and slightly inquiring. "aren't you - aren't you _cold?_ What're you doing?"

Roulé stood up. A veritable waterfall cascaded down his body, making his clothes cling tightly to his skin. Guy, wide-eyed, backed away slowly. "I, um," he started, and jumped back into the doorway when the older man reached for a nearby towel. "I'll let you get sorted," he mumbled, then fled towards the living room. Just a few more steps and he would be out of the front door, and he hesitated mid-step, wondering if it was even worth sticking around. Roulé was clearly not in the right frame of mind. _I've made a mistake,_ was the thought rushing through his mind in a loop, _this was a dumb idea and I was foolish to come here and I'm sure this is all a horrible mistake and I should just go while I can-_

A sharp click of a light switch sounded behind him, and Guy saw the faint light of the bathroom disappear from beneath his feet. He stood still, neither running nor turning around, only able to glance stiffly at his side as the older man glided past him effortlessly: he was entirely dry (save for his hair) and so were his clothes, oddly enough, but he could have changed into an identical or similar outfit for all Guy knew. The man sat down on the couch, folded his hands neatly on his lap, and nodded at the boy to sit down. That overbearing politeness, again; Guy obeyed, albeit on the far side of the couch and without looking at him.

They made no attempt to communicate for a while, staring together at the wall.  
The thing about dealing with a mysterious, speechless man such as he was that the burden of talk fell on Guy, and the boy wasn't exactly the best of conversationists. "So... _Roulé_ ," he finally spoke up, gazing down at the surface of the glass table. "... if that is your name. Is that your _actual_ name?"

The man blinked softly at him, tilting his head all birdlike, before he picked up the nearby notepad and scrawled a word on it.

[ _Non_ ]

"... _Work_ name?"

[ _Oui_ ]

Guy nodded slowly. He was still nervous, sure, but he wasn't getting the impression that the man would hurt him. Roulé was acting cordial as if he had always known him, which whilst jarring was not exactly psychotic behaviour. As if having taken note of the boy's nerves, the man flicked to another page and leaned down, writing very quickly and yet with a legible, even hand, the nape of his neck clean and visible as he did so.

[I knew you were following me on Wednesday I'm glad for it quite honestly that you know now and if I'm reading you right I'm guessing you aren't all that shocked either]

_Whoa, whoa, hang on..._

Guy was a fast reader. But because of the lack of punctuation, unless he forced himself to slow down, he could not parse Roulé's sentences correctly; it felt as if the man was spilling his innermost thoughts, devoid of all organization, out to him in a vast flood and the boy had no idea where to begin. _Maybe he never picked up on where those inflections should fall?_ Guy briefly theorized to himself, but dismissed that possibility immediately. That couldn't be right. Roulé could most definitely _hear_ how people talked, where they stressed their syllables, paused or carried on, and he was still using apostrophes. Whatever the reason was, he was _choosing_ to write this way. "Isn't it awfully inconvenient for you?" he asked, dodging the actual question posed in his writing. "being... being unable to speak, I mean?"

[ _Au contraire_ I find that it helps them open up to me better I've never had trouble at least]

"I... see."

There was little more to say about that. He saw the other's point clearly - after all, he himself was sitting here and communicating with the older man, and not having the most difficult time of it. This was entirely different to verbal conversation, and without a clue as to what words Roulé was putting emphasis on, Guy couldn't figure out his _attitude_ easily; but aside from that, his intentions and meaning came through nonetheless, and the other's body language spoke volumes in itself. Roulé's smile broadened, watching the boy deep in thought, and he ducked his head a little to write down a question of his in turn.

[ _Tu t'appelles comment_ ]

"... Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo."

[And how do you spell that one must always know how to spell people's names correctly it's only polite]

Guy couldn't argue with that logic. "Here," he pulled out his wallet from his jacket and searched around for his student ID, laying it on the table, closer towards him but facing Roulé. "my full name's Guillaume Emmanuel, but that's - that's what everyone calls me, for short. Not that it matters," he added hastily. But Roulé seemed far more interested in what lay beyond than what was offered to him - Guy carried around a photo of a younger Thomas and himself with their arms around each other in the license pocket of his wallet, and he'd gotten so used to doing so that when the older man leaned forwards and made a beckoning motion he didn't immediately realize what he wanted. "Hmm? Oh, this?"

He was understandably reluctant to let the other handle the photo, but held the wallet open in his palms, allowing Roulé to see. The man stared at it for a while, a puzzled look darting across his eyes briefly as he scrutinized Thomas, despite definitely having seen him before. "... Is there..."

[ _Est-il ton ami_ ]

_"Oui."_

[ _Petit-ami_ ]

Guy frowned. "... _Non_. What even makes you say that?"

[You look very happy together]

 _That's hardly grounds for a relationship, though,_ Guy thought, but kept it to himself. He'd never thought of him and Thomas in that way, and because it was not the truth at that point in time, he dismissed it far quicker than he really ought to have. Roulé offered no other explanation, but his eyes flickered to Guy's face and met his own; now that the glasses were off, Guy could see that the older man's eyes were espresso-dark and intense, almost all pupil instead of any visible iris. They were oddly intimidating, but he kept eye contact anyway, not wanting to back down.  
And it worked, to an extent. Roulé was the first to look away, spinning the pen neatly around his thumb and a bemused look on his face as he set down the notepad.

[It does make me a little jealous]

 _Jealous of what?_ Guy almost-asked again, but had enough sense not to. The conversation was heading in a way that he was finding difficult to answer, and he was not yet so well acquainted with Roulé that he felt himself obliged to stay longer. "Please excuse me, I need to go," he said brusquely, and put his student card and wallet away. "it's late and I was meant to be back home a while ago."

[Would you like anything to eat or drink before you do]

"I really shouldn't. But thank you."

Roulé didn't press the issue, and got up at the same time as Guy did, intending to show him to the door. On the way he plucked yet another bowtie from the side and tied it swiftly around his neck as he walked; it was nearing seven o'clock, he had just been with a client, and he was doubtless about to head out again after Guy left. "Have a good night," the boy said awkwardly at the door, seeing Roulé leaning over the notepad nearby. "I don't know if I'll see you again, but..."

[Oh you will and I very highly doubt it will be but thank you it is appreciated]

"... You... _don't?_ "

Roulé hushed him with a finger held in front of his lips, his eyes twinkling. His skin stood out very white against the vivid rose-pink of his mouth, and Guy was entirely lost for words, staring instead at that contrast and then at the curve of the other's lips as he wrote down his final message to Guy for the day. The shape of Roulé's mouth was oddly familiar; he couldn't place where exactly he'd seen it, but it was a youthful one, plump and curved ever so playfully. Then Roulé tore out the sheet of paper, handed it to him, and gestured for him to go - so he did, mulling over the message and his narrow handwriting all the way home.

[I'm available for rent twenty-four hours a day]

\-----

Three days later, Guy read in the morning newspaper that a gigolo had been killed, and almost screamed out loud.

He didn't even usually read newspapers in the morning, and it hadn't even been an article near the front page. There just happened to be one on the table when Guy went downstairs for his breakfast; he'd just happened to have nothing else to read (having nearly given up on _Swann's Way_ altogether); he'd just happened to flick to that article with a headline proclaiming in bold that a male escort had been found dead in Montmartre, and given _all_ of those factors, it was of no surprise that he barely managed to avoid screaming and ended up knocking his orange juice all over the table. " _Guy, est-ce que ça va?_ " his mother called from two rooms away.

"I'm _fine, Maman_ ," he hollered back, but he could not quite keep the strangled tone out of his voice. "I'm fine, _Maman. I'm fine_."

She said something in return, but Guy didn't hear it. (There was silence afterwards, so he at least knew in the back of his mind that she wasn't worried.) After cleaning up the spill, he hastily returned to the article and read it several times through. No name had been given, no photo, nothing but a simple description: _on Sunday a young man was discovered dead in an apartment in the Montmarte district. The man, whose name has not been released, was reported to be a male escort. Investigators have reported that no signs of a break-in nor that of a struggle could be found, and have identified a possible cause of erotic asphyxiation... had been dead a couple of days..._

Guy couldn't bear to read any more at that point. He pushed his half-eaten breakfast away and flung the newspaper on the table; he ended up throwing it harder than intended, making it skid right off the edge of the table and onto the floor, but he was too fear-stricken to pick it up again. _He was alive on Friday evening... but he did... he did say that it might be a bad night, holy shit, what if it actually was him and someone came over and killed him right after I left? What do I do now? Can I even do anything? What the hell do I do?!_

 _Nothing_ , cold logic told him almost immediately, being the first to speak up. _Nothing, it is none of your business, you have nothing to do with him_.  
His mouth felt dry as he headed upstairs and got ready for school, unable to accept it; he'd found Roulé's presence troubling, but he certainly hadn't wanted him _dead_ , and the faint hope of seeing him on the Métro was quashed when the entire fifteen-minute ride passed by without sight of him. With all of those things spinning in his mind, by the time Guy had sat down in class he was feeling thoroughly alienated from his surroundings, numb to all emotion except for that of intense fear. Sabine, after having gone the past few days without hearing a response from Thomas, came up to them at one point, subjecting the younger boy to a hushed but quick-and-furious interrogation for about five minutes before storming off - and Guy could only watch detachedly, totally unable to empathize one way or the other. "I'm just not _interested_ ," Thomas groaned weakly, half in frustrated tears by the time she had left. "what other justification does she _need_."

"You could have been nicer," Guy murmured absent-mindedly. Thomas stared at him in disbelief, then he realized how absent-minded he had been, and downcast his eyes in an apology that he knew hadn't really gone through. It was just fortunate that Thomas forgave and forgot easily, because Guy really wasn't in the mood to focus on such trivial matters when a man he'd spoken to only a few days ago - the man who he'd seen in the _bath,_ as absurd as that memory was - might be lying in a morgue somewhere. He kept on trying to tell himself that it was either none of his business, or that Roulé wasn't the likely target - _I mean, Pigalle is just nearby, how many other escorts live in Montmartre that never get talked about? He's hardly the only one!_ \- but it was of no use, and the sickening agony of not knowing slowly ate away at him over the course of three or four hours, during which his concentration steadily plummeted until he was left staring at a blank page.

Thomas brushed his hand against his, tapping it to coax his fingers open; the lunchtime note had come around again. He took it numbly and stared down at it for a long time, his friends' respective handwritings blurring into nonsense.

 _ René: _ _chips s._  
_Thom: crème c._  
_Guy:_  
_Laurent:_

He tried, oh, God, he tried, but he _couldn't_. It just couldn't be done. Today he was totally unable to focus nor comprehend the idea of staying here for any longer; he was going to need to escape, and he would need to do it as soon as possible. Guy bit his lip slightly, dug his nails hard into his palm under the desk - then lifted his pen.

_Guy: (Je suis malade)_

He passed the still-open note to Thomas, then slumped over on the desk, genuinely feeling ill after having confessed his urge to leave. The younger boy blinked, glanced down at the note - and looked at him with alarm, though he kept his silence. There was little point in making a fuss with less than ten minutes to go, after all. Guy could sense Laurent gazing worriedly at him from the back of the class, combined with a couple more others who had sensed that something wasn't right; he wasn't fond of being stared at, and could feel his face heating up, but all that was quite frankly secondary to his inner turmoil.

"Guy, you don't just look unwell, you look like you're about to pass out," was the first thing Thomas said to him, almost as soon as class was dismissed. Laurent and René approached also. " _mon Dieu,_ go home. I'll drop by later in the evening."

"No... no need," the older boy murmured weakly, pulling his satchel and holding it to his chest. "I don't know if I'm coming down with something or what, but-"

He raised his head then, and judging by how all of his friends winced, he really _was_ looking quite sickly. "... Yeah," Laurent nodded, and held out his hand to help him up. "we'll tell your German teacher for you. Go and rest, Guy, hopefully see you tomorrow."

" _Merci beaucoup._ You guys are the best."

"Would you like me to walk you to the gates?"

He shook his head. "I'll be fine, Thomas. I just... need to be... alone for a while."

"If you say so. Be _safe_."

Thomas at least insisted on walking him out of the main building, and as Guy shouldered his satchel and left, he could feel the other's worried gaze fixed upon his form. He knew that the younger boy would stay there until he was out of sight, and perhaps longer beyond that, and the guilt of it weighed upon him heavily. None of this was Thomas's fault, he was letting all of this affect not just himself but everyone around him, it had to stop...

He made it all the way to Villiers Station, went down the steps, ignored a youth brushing past him to jump the barrier, and sat down on a nearby bench. Then he buried his face into his hands, wondering what to do. He knew that despite his pleas not to, Thomas would at least want to pause by his house at some point today - he didn't finish until five, but that was the time allotted to Guy to do whatever he had to do. Part of him wanted to say _to hell with it_ , go back home and curl up in his bed for a nice long nap; yet another part of him appealed to his conscience, half-enticing and half-threatening him with the uncomfortable truth that he would not be able to rest until he found out what had happened to Roulé.

"All right, well, fuck it," he finally said to himself. "I'm _going_."  
And thus Guy stood up, dusted his thighs, sighed heavily - and turned to board the train that went in the direction of Montmartre.

\-----

Still, in the end, the trip turned out to be well worth it.  
Not only that, Guy was granted his sense of relief far earlier than he had expected; no police activity was visible around the apartment, which could only be a good sign. The weather was pleasant and as Guy left the elevator, the breeze from high up ruffled his hair. As before, he peered down the hallway first to see if anyone was there, and ducked out of the way when he saw another person emerging from Roulé's apartment. It was a young, wary businessman with mussed hair this time, mumbling a curse under his breath and his tie loose around his neck; his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar as well, and he was fiddling to button it back up one-handed as he walked past. The man's suit jacket brushed against Guy's shoulder as he headed towards the elevator and got on it; the boy felt an acute surge of nausea from the pit of his stomach at the sensation, and when he was sure the man was gone he had to lean against the wall and breathe deeply for a few seconds to calm himself down. Even in his young age Guy was far from an optimist, and though he tried to comfort himself with the observation that _well, people are coming over, that means he's alive,_ that did nothing to bring him genuine relief. He hadn't needed to see _more_ of the people that Roulé was having to sleep with, regardless of circumstance.

The door was closed this time. He rang the bell and waited without announcing his presence.  
A bundle of mixed emotions answered the door, half-dressed, unsurprised, handsome, very much alive - and with several deep-purple bruises down his neck and on his face.

"... What the hell happened to you?" Guy asked in mixed horror and relief. Roulé frowned, perhaps having thought that the other found him disgusting in some way, though his expression softened again when the boy reached out to touch the bruises with a shaking hand. He stopped before he actually got there, suddenly worried that he might hurt the older man more, but his lack of hesitation was proof enough of his concern. "was it _that_ man who did it? Are you... I... I'm sorry, I sound like a right idiot. Roulé. _How are you_."

Roulé blinked down at him. (Guy might have described him as 'silent in thought', but then he was always silent.) Eventually he scribbled something on the notepad next to him and passed it to Guy.

[Still a gigolo of course how are you doing yourself]

"Could be worse. Listen, I need to talk to you about something... something that really worried me, I know that we barely know each other and I need to be back home soon but I - I _really_ wanted to talk to you. Could you spare me some time, please."

It came out more as an exhausted plea than a proper request, but Roulé considered it seriously, leaning against the doorway and his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he contemplated the question. His expression remained neutral all the while. Guy waited, the still-continued existence of Roulé only just beginning to sink in (and he _was_ intensely relieved about it), until the older man finally wrote down a reply.

[I'm going out for lunch in a few minutes would you like to join me it's my treat]

Guy stared. He _was_ hungry, having not even finished breakfast, but this wasn't what he'd been expecting. "What, now? With you? But you're-"

[Do you like fish]

"Yes, but it really isn't nece-"

[Excellent I'll be back out soon wait for me _merci_ ]

It was decided, just like that. Guy was pushed outside with an affirmative nod and a slight wave; the door shut again, and the boy was left standing there, wondering what the hell had just happened. One shock had given way to another so rapidly that he felt as if the universe was toying him around, making him feel small, insignificant and rather irate; he knew deep down that it wasn't his fault and (probably) not Roulé's fault, but that was of absolutely no help to the confusion he felt. This was going to be hideously awkward; how was Roulé going to walk the streets in broad daylight with a bruised face and not attract attention? It wasn't just a lovebite or two. Someone had _assaulted_ Roulé, someone had offered violence to him for no real good reason, and he shuddered to think what else they might have done.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

But Guy needn't have worried about the physical side of this, at least.  
When Roulé finally emerged from the apartment, he saw that the bruises on his face had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping that Roulé's utterances are easy to parse even though he's very economical with his punctuation!  
> I hear Pigalle can be very dangerous if you have no idea what you're doing or who to trust
> 
> This is the last update for perhaps the next week or so, I have exams to be completing. Once that's over I shall be in full throttle again.
> 
> * 'Waldeinsamkeit' is a German word that can vaguely be translated as 'that feeling of being alone in the woods/lost in vastness'.  
> * I had massive fun writing the _'ça va'_ section! It's both response and question and can vary massively in implications depending on tone and context. I forgot how awesome this language could be, it's been five years since I last learnt French in any capacity, haha.  
>  * There would indeed be a release from YMO in 1993, but they don't know that (this story is set early 1990).  
> * Route from Anvers Station to Place Pigalle is accurate. Takes about six minutes by foot, I believe.
> 
> I like comments and questions <333333
> 
> [ **EDIT (28/Sep/2014):** This is the first major edit visible in this story; a previous scene I rejected while writing this originally, the one with Daniel Vangarde, has been restored! I think it was paramount that he was there, that there was something about him that the readers had to know. Other than that, there are some things that have been reworded and edited, much like the chapter before. This one merits a reread. Original chapter publication date is 16/May/2014.]


	3. Doppelgänger

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 03) - _'D_ _oppelgänger_ '**

\----------------------

Being accompanied by a gigolo to go out and eat, no matter what the exact nature of their terms were, was a bizarre experience and would forever remain so. They did not walk for long, but Guy was nervous throughout their walk nonetheless, wondering if he or Roulé would be recognized on the streets. Having few people he knew in Montmartre, the former was really quite a superficial worry compared to what the older man potentially could be dealing with, but he walked with such confidence that it was difficult to dwell on those thoughts for _too_ long. They headed almost all the way back to Pigalle Station, though Roulé made a sharp turn half a block away from it and led the boy through a couple of narrower streets before they reached their destination.  
  
"Here?" Guy asked, and the older man nodded. He leant down to scrutinize the daily special, chalked on the menu board standing just outside of the restaurant, while the boy glanced at the interior: large, rustic and simple decor, and most importantly, just the right number of people were inside. It wasn't a full restaurant by any sense, but enough people were there to ensure their anonymity. As if to assuage his doubts Roulé straightened up at precisely that point in his thoughts, beckoning him close and opening the door for him as they went in.  
  
Roulé clearly had been here before, and many times. The moment they entered the restaurant, there was a slight commotion between the servers as they noticed him, and began frantically signaling to each other, looking for someone in particular. (Guy felt uncomfortable at the attention, but the other's hand rested reassuringly on his shoulder, and he calmed down.) Eventually one waitress emerged from the rest, leading them both to a clean, secluded table by a window. When they sat down she smiled gently at Guy and greeted him with a ' _bonjour_ ' before turning to Roulé, making a quick half-salute with her right hand near her forehead while moving her lips in what seemed to be a ' _salut_ '.  
  
_Salut,_ Roulé nodded as he reciprocated the gesture, and quickly launched into a series of well-practiced signed gestures while the waitress wrote down what he was 'saying'. That was a good reason to be frequenting this place if nothing else, Guy remarked silently to himself, in awe at how _rapid_ and _fluent_ the communication between Roulé and the waitress was. That was a language that put him completely at equal level with someone instead of having to resort to writing.  
  
(Though now he had even less of an idea as to what the older man was ordering. He could only hope that it was good.)  
  
Roulé paused once briefly, turned to face him, and mouthed something. That time around, it took Guy only one try to read what he was attempting to say. _Vin blanc?_  
  
_"... S'il-vous plait."_  
  
The older man covered his mouth with his hand lightly at the reply, chuckling; Guy was not fond of being laughed at, but there was such a complete _lack_ of malice in Roulé that he simply couldn't bring himself to do more than blush and look down. The waitress nodded, jotted down whatever the other's order had been, and left them be for no more than five minutes - a time spent on gazing around them and not at each other.  
  
Guy checked his watch. Eleven past one.  
It was getting warm outside. He slipped out of his uniform jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, nervously brushing his hair back and feeling rather underdressed in his short-sleeved white shirt and tie. His arm lay bare against the table, and he briefly wondered how immature he looked next to someone like Roulé, though he was at least glad that his outfit possessed a semblance of formality. (He'd never been so glad about having to wear a tie before.) As if to reassure him, Roulé also took off his suit jacket and set it aside. Today he wore no tie, and as Guy watched he unbuttoned his collar, pulled off his cufflinks - two elegant twisted-silver knots - and carefully rolled up his sleeves down to his elbows, lending him a look almost as casual as the boy's. _Now we're even_ , his posture seemed to say, and even though Guy said nothing, he was secretly quite grateful.  
  
White wine, bread and olives were soon set on the table, and they again got straight to it without attempting to converse or raising their glasses. Roulé filled Guy's glass for him before his, the boy thanked him, and that was the extent of their communication for over five minutes as they tucked into the coarse white ciabatta and olives to ease into the meal. The bread was excellent, freshly baked and floured with just a faint tickling of olive oil. The wine was refreshing also, if slightly dryer than he preferred, and Guy made a mental note to not drink more than two glasses in case it made him blush too much in front of Roulé. Either way, his hunger was easing, and that was a good thing.  
  
The restaurant was half full, but it was still quite loud with the sound of jovial chatter. Guy, who was used to talking during meals, couldn't get used to the silence between him and Roulé; he understood that it couldn't be helped, but it was still hard. To try to relax himself he focused on Roulé's mannerisms instead, how his pale hands barely seemed to touch the cutlery or how his lips left no imprint on his wineglass. Soon the waitress brought over a heaping bowl of salad and a large grilled rainbow trout, dividing it into two portions and setting it down on their plates. Roulé sprinkled some salt on the fish, squeezed out some lemon juice onto it, and dripped a little olive oil onto his portion. He did this without getting a single drop of liquid on his fingers or having to clean off anything with a napkin, and even those conventional motions were elegant under his control. It was magnificent, really.  
  
At that point, Roulé noticed him looking. He took up his glass, held it out towards Guy, and gazed back at him meaningfully. " _À votre santé_ ," the boy murmured, clinked his glass against Roulé's, and drank shyly. The older man chuckled lightly into his wine, his eyes softening; he was still sipping away when he finally pulled out the red/gold notebook from his pocket and spread it open on the table, pulling out the fountain pen. Guy then watched with bewilderment as Roulé uncapped the pen with a deft flick of his left hand and began to write upside-down, allowing the boy to read his message straight from his hand and from where he was sitting.  
  
[ _Tu peux me tutoyer_ ]  
  
It was settled, then. " _D'accord_ ," Guy said as he did the same as Roulé to his portion of the fish, and smiled, the tension melting away from his shoulders.  
The fish was well grilled, its light-pink flesh opaque and full of flavour. Guy hadn't had better in a long time, and decided that he'd better keep this restaurant in mind.  
  
The afternoon was just beginning to stretch on, the standard lunchtime hours drawing to a close, but they were still concentrating on their feast. Roulé ate about as slowly as Guy did; he had a curious expression on his face all throughout the meal, a vaguely _perplexed_ one that seemed to be unable to decide whether he found the food delicious or not, but he was certainly eating steadily and very cleanly, his cutlery making very little sound on the plate. And the longer Guy observed him the more he became certain that Roulé was the only person who really _suited_ this restaurant, far classier and more elegant than anyone else in it.  
  
But simultaneously, that was not _entirely_ a compliment.  
  
Yes, Roulé was a beautiful man. Now that they were neither in the overcrowded Métro nor in the man's own darkened apartment, Guy could get a much closer look at him, and what he saw definitely qualified as attractive. He certainly wasn't alone in that perception, either, as throughout their meal all sorts of people were giving Roulé looks of alternating wonder and appreciation. Guy could have felt profoundly strange about what they must be thinking of the relationship between him and Roulé - the man looked too young to be his father, he himself was clearly not at school where he was supposed to be - but at the same time, he knew he didn't need to worry. Roulé was too eye-catching, diminishing everything else around him. Not even he was immune to the man's looks, a single glance was enough to get him focused on _him_ and nothing else.  
  
He rested his knife and fork down briefly; his glass was empty, and Roulé quickly reached forwards to top it off for him again. " _Merci_ ," Guy offered shyly, and was answered with a nod. The wine swirled pale-gold at its heart and he couldn't help but notice how Roulé's hand managed to be _paler_ than it. He was coldly handsome, with features Apollonian combined with all the colour and carved grace of Grecian marble, yet at the same time they suffered for being _too true_ to their inspiration. Even though it was a bright spring day outside and the sun was shining in from the window, sharp angled shadows stood out on Roulé's face, neck and shoulders; they softened him not at all, rather _intensifying_ , giving him an uncanny depth that both fascinated and bothered Guy the more he looked at him. In a restaurant saturated with light only he alone had such contrast, making him come across as _weighted_ , almost too _real_ for the boy's comfort.  
  
A magpie perched on the windowsill, and Guy paused eating to look at it. It was a juvenile, still possessing a downy chocolate-brown hue to its plumage; its beady eyes seemed to stare straight at him, and it cawed, though the sound was inaudible through the glass. Roulé, too, turned to glance at the magpie, carefully wiping his mouth with the napkin. As he did so his eyes caught the sunlight - Guy had noticed before that Roulé possessed eyes so dark that his pupils couldn't be seen, but illuminated in this way he could see that his irises were actually just a very dark maroon, so intense they appeared almost red. The moment he looked at the magpie the bird cawed again and took rapid flight, and the older man watched it leave, expressionless.  
  
Roulé was a beautiful man, but there was something _very seriously not right_ about him, and Guy doubted that he was the first one to have noticed this.  
  
"Remember what I first wanted to talk to you about?" he finally spoke up as Roulé downed the last of his wine. The man paused mid-sip and raised an eyebrow. The rest of his features remained static. "considering you're here, it seems silly now... but I figure I might as well tell you, why not. I read an article in the morning newspaper today... just a small one. About a male escort who was found dead in his apartment."  
  
Roulé's expression didn't change in the slightest; he merely mulled over this piece of information for a moment, absent-mindedly picking up and biting into an olive. He plucked out the seed as expertly as a poet might dash off a line and disposed of it in the ashtray before nodding at Guy to carry on. "It really freaked me out some," the boy continued, awed at how easy the other's movements were. "especially when I saw that it happened to a young man, and in an apartment in Montmartre. Strangulation, they said, and with no clue as to who might have done it. I," he took a deep breath and looked away to take a gulp of his wine. "... I... I couldn't stay in school after reading that, couldn't concentrate for anything. I got out early. And here we are."  
  
He really wished that he could read Roulé better. The older man was apparently only expressive when he felt like it, and this was not one of those times.  
  
"I thought that it might be you. I just had to confirm that it wasn't. The details fitted, and I thought someone might have..."  
  
Guy faltered there, having lost his nerve; he turned back to the wine, leaving the most difficult things unsaid. Roulé looked no more nor less mildly-perplexed than before, gazing down at his plate for a moment - but slowly, almost so slowly that Guy didn't catch it, a frown marred his features and he felt for his notebook one-handed, lowering his head as he began a reply.  
  
[You know]  
  
The wine was finished by this point. There was still some left in the bottle, but Guy didn't ask for more, nor did Roulé offer him any; he wasn't blushing, though, which was unusual but appreciated.  
  
[I'm not the type to sleep with just anybody]  
  
Never mind; _there_ on his cheeks rose the blush, although it had little to do with the actual wine. Guy had barely raised a shaking hand to touch his cheek when Roulé scrawled another line and leaned back on his chair, finishing off the last of the bread and looking rather haughty about the whole business.  
  
[I might be a whore but I don't just sleep with anybody I think it's very important you realize that]  
  
"Oh, _no,_ that's not what I meant!" Guy exclaimed hurriedly, shaking his head, distressed at the very thought of it. Roulé quirked his eyebrow. "it... it wasn't meant... I wasn't trying to imply anything about whoever you might have been with, it's just... I was worried. I know this sounds stupid but I really was - I - I was _scared_ that something had happened to you. I always heard the district could be dangerous, so I am actually _really_ glad that you're alive. That's all I wanted to say, honest."  
  
[You think]  
  
_.... Um, yes...? No...?_  
  
What exact part of his speech was he meant to be responding to? If Roulé had been capable of _interjecting_ he could have figured it out, but because of how he communicated, he was one-hundred-percent doomed to always miss the right moment. Plus, Roulé being so impeccably polite and all, he never _interrupted_ Guy when he spoke, anyway. Guy set down his cutlery, pushed his plate away and took up the glass of wine with a confused look on his face; after a full minute of not receiving a reply, Roulé wrote down an addendum and pushed it again towards him.  
  
[That was a question do you think I am alive]  
  
A chill ran down Guy's spine as he read, the sordid details of the newspaper article all too vivid in his memory, and he was suddenly extremely glad for having finished eating. He would have lost his appetite and never gotten it back otherwise. Even the wine he was sipping seemed to lose its taste at the very thought. "... Well," he stated nevertheless. "... what _are_ you, if you aren't?"  
  
Roulé _stopped_. That was the only apt description for it, it was not a mere pause in movement or expression. He actually _stopped_ upon hearing that question, as if frozen in Polaroid. Not the slightest rustling of his clothes could be heard, and he wasn't even visibly breathing, his gaze downcast and fixed solidly on a single spot on the table. He stayed that way for what couldn't even have been ten seconds, but it was so _jarring_ to see him that way that Guy immediately apologized out loud, wanting him to stop stopping. When Roulé finally raised his head, though, Guy could sense that the apology hadn't reached him overmuch; his eyes were as calm as ever, but the oddest little smile - no, that wasn't the right word, it was more like a _smirk_ \- had drifted onto his lips. It was so gentle as to be barely perceivable, but at the same time it was _mocking_ ; Roulé knew a vast number of things relevant to this situation that Guy didn't, and was blatantly holding that over his head. "W-what?" Guy asked again, discomfort prickling at his skin, unable to keep eye contact. " _what?_ "  
  
The older man picked up his pen and wrote down something, slow and ponderous. But unlike before he didn't let Guy see it, actively picking up the notebook and staring down at the pages with faint dissatisfaction before snapping it closed altogether. The sound it made was surprisingly loud, and a few patrons close by gave them a glance; it was one of finality, an indication that Roulé for some reason was done talking, and Guy would just have to deal with it.  
  
And dealt with it, he did, though he was disappointed.  
" _... Ça ne fait rien,_ " Guy said quietly, and put down his glass. Roulé did the same just as the waitress came around to ask if everything was all right, and signaled for the bill.  
  
After the meal had been paid for, they left the restaurant without fanfare. Roulé put his suit jacket back on, though Guy merely draped his own jacket on his satchel, finding the day too warm; the man never seemed to feel the heat or even sweat, for every part of him was immaculate and dry. "Thank you for the meal," the boy said, and Roulé inclined his head, a light smile back on his features. "it was lovely. I can make my way back to the station, don't feel like you need to take me."  
  
Roulé glanced across the road. _Es-tu sûr?_ he mouthed.  
  
Guy nodded. "Mm. See you around, Roulé, and... I know I'm silly to be returning to this again, but... just be _careful_. Please?"  
  
Roulé didn't respond. Evidently the boy didn't merit any answer from him this time around. Guy bit his lip, but turned away decisively and walked off, the other's faint smile still clear in his mind; he turned right and was just emerging into an alleyway when the older man walked through a wall and hastened to catch up with him. At least that was what it looked like - one moment Guy had left him behind, and then suddenly he _hadn't,_ Roulé having moved so quickly that he seemed to have dropped from thin air. Guy couldn't tell. All he knew was that he'd taken less than ten steps into said alleyway when he felt Roulé's cool hand grasping firmly around his own, and that when he looked back the older man was both pulling him back and clutching his notebook in his other hand. Having gotten the boy's attention, he let go of him, and opened the book to a message already written down.  
  
[About what you asked at the restaurant]  
  
_"... Oui?"_  
  
Roulé smiled, tore out that very page, and gave it to Guy. From nowhere he pulled out a top hat, the exact same shade of grey as his suit, elegantly settling it over his hair before bowing and walking away. The boy didn't follow, having already inferred that he couldn't catch up to Roulé for the world - if he tried, he'd be met with a blank wall or something like that. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead, leaning against the brick wall, feeling mentally exhausted and craving a nap in his own bed; but before he set off for Pigalle Station, he turned over the piece of paper in his hand and looked. What Roulé had written and hadn't shown to him in the restaurant was there, and Guy read it at least five times before lifting his head and gazing towards where the older man had gone, no less confused than he had been before.  
  
[I am what I am]  
  
But then, wasn't he used to that, already?  
  
\-----  
  
The entire business had one thing going for it, though, and that was settling Guy's mind.  
When he arrived back home, he collapsed in bed and did nothing but sleep until his mother shook him awake at dinnertime; after downing some _pot-au-feu_ , he went back upstairs and slept some more, so utterly relieved at seeing Roulé alive and well that he felt no shame in succumbing to the wave of exhaustion that came along with it. In fact, he slept _so well_ and for _so long_ that he ended up oversleeping altogether. He hadn't made Thomas wait, for it was a Tuesday, but he only just barely made it to school in time and had to dash off to his first class without being able to make it to morning registration.  
  
"- focusing on the imperfect tense. Last year you were taught that the perfect preterite was more commonly used in German conversation. The imperfect is found mostly in written media or narration, and I believe we've come across quite a few already-"  
  
Said class wasn't one that he shared with Thomas, either, so he had to spend it feeling breathless and alone. Thomas had given up on German at the beginning of this school year, way back in September, having found the language too difficult and of little use. This was an opinion very staunchly opposed by Guy, but _both_ were stubborn in this matter, and weren't going to give way any time soon.  
  
"- consider for example the simplicity of saying ' _Ich ging nach Paris_ ', as opposed to ' _Ich bin nach Paris gegangen_ '-"  
  
Madness, that's what it was. He would have helped Thomas all the way. German class was the first thing he'd ever helped Thomas out on, when they'd first met four years ago. He still remembered those times very fondly, and thought it a great shame that the younger boy hadn't wanted to carry it on. But then, today he couldn't pay much attention, either; Guy just looked out of the window and twirled his pen in his hand for almost the entire hour, trying to replicate how he'd seen Roulé do it, and failing miserably.  
  
It was raining outside. As the hour drew to a close, it only rained harder, battering on the windows almost to the point of drowning out the final part of the lesson. He hadn't managed to catch Roulé in the Métro today, he couldn't help but wonder what he was doing; did gigolos take rainy days off? He had no idea. Guy didn't have much of an idea about anything when it came to the adult world, and admittedly hadn't needed to until recently.  
  
"Guy..."  
  
Come to think of it, he still needed to get himself an umbrella; why was it that he kept on forgetting?  
  
"... Guy? Are you listening?"  
  
He jumped in his seat and looked around to see Thomas, standing by his chair. The class had ended already and the last of the students were filing out. "Oh, _salut!_ What're you doing here?"  
  
He often waited outside for Guy when the other had German class; he wasn't the most patient boy around, but even then he'd never come inside to _search_ for him, no matter how long the older boy was taking with packing up his things or asking something to the teacher. "I need to talk to you," Thomas said, an odd inflection in his voice, and Guy tensed up; something wasn't right today. "come with me?"  
  
".... Sure."  
  
There was a Latin class to be held where they were presently, so they left and headed down the hallway, looking for an empty classroom. They found none, and found their homeroom occupied by other people as well when they checked; so outside they went, unable to venture very far because of their lack of an umbrella. Luckily, there was an area near the school library that was sheltered and full of unoccupied benches. "Well?" Guy spoke up first as they sat down; unusually for Thomas, the younger boy hadn't actually said a thing since first asking to talk to him, having walked alongside him with a pensive, thin-lipped look all this time. "what is it?"  
  
"I don't really know how to explain it," Thomas replied. "... and I might be overreacting, for all I know. It's about something René said to me yesterday."  
  
"What _about_ René?"  
  
"He said... he thought he saw you yesterday afternoon in Montmartre..." Thomas hesitated, and continued in a smaller voice. "and... that you were with... someone else... a _man_..."  
  
Well, so there it was; he'd been found out, just like that.  
Guy hadn't put too much thought into this possibility, but now that it had happened, he felt numb about it. Part of him was disheartened at having been seen through so quickly - there was always some pride involved in putting up a deceptive front, after all - and because of that he felt a futile urge to resist, though he was equally ready to come clean. "René doesn't know what he's talking about. What on earth would I have been doing in _Montmartre_ in the middle of the day?"  
  
"Well, that's the thing..."  
  
He wasn't going to like this in the slightest. He could tell.  
  
"I was... with him, too. And with Laurent. I was there when he said he could see you, but I - I honest to God _couldn't see anything_ where he was pointing, none of us could. Eventually René couldn't, either," he was beginning to speak faster, tripping over his words in his anxiety. "a-and I know he probably saw someone that - who, I mean - who o-only _looked_ a bit like you but something about it felt _so weird_ and Guy, I... I want to know - did you _actually_ go home yesterday, after I saw you off? _Directly?_ "  
  
_... Huh?_  
  
What Thomas told him made him even more helplessly lost, despite the fact that he hadn't been found out after all. The younger boy was breathing hard from effort, his cheeks flushed with some emotion that he himself seemed to be unable to grasp. "... I'm not sure if I'm getting this," Guy said, frowning and pressing a hand to his forehead "you were _there?_ What were all of you doing there in the first place?"  
  
"Went to lunch with Papa, we were looking for somewhere to eat..." Thomas was fiddling with the edge of his own jacket. "why _else_ would we have been there?"  
  
He had a point. A _very_ good one, at that, and Guy mentally cursed himself. They had a full hour and a half for every lunchtime, it was ten minutes to Montmartre from Villiers Station, and Daniel sometimes bought all of them lunch - none of them really had any other business there otherwise. Just by asking, Guy had betrayed that he wasn't acting like himself, and he had to cover it up somehow. "We passed the note around, I thought you all ate lunch at school. I'm sorry, Thomas, I'm really confused here. I was sick as hell and not up to eating anything, let alone eating anything at _Montmartre_."  
  
"You're not the only one who's confused," Thomas said, and chuckled nervously. "as for Papa... he _did_ just kind of drop in, I suppose. But you know... he does that."  
  
And so he did. "You saw me go. Literally went home and slept until dinnertime," Guy said, and shrugged nonchalantly. "why do you think I was late today, I had a _hell_ of a time convincing _Maman_ to let me go to school at all."  
  
"No Montmartre."  
  
"No Montmartre. Though the way you make it sound, I've really missed out. Did you have a good time, at least?"  
  
Thomas had been slowly softening through the conversation, and at this point he finally seemed convinced that Guy was telling the truth. "Mmh," he said, still a little doubtful, but also not wanting to make his friend feel bad about not having been there. But his body language had definitely relaxed, and his face wasn't quite as red any more as he shuffled a little closer to Guy. "it was good, but I - _we_ missed you. Maybe that's why René thought he saw you... but anyway, I'm glad that you're better. You _are_ better, aren't you?"  
  
_"Oui."_  
  
"Papa said hello. I dropped in yesterday, but your parents said you were sleeping."  
  
"And I was. Dead to the world. Whatever it was, though, it's gone."  
  
Thomas smiled, the light back in his chocolate-brown eyes, and Guy felt the most intense bolt of guilt in his stomach. "Good to hear. Don't worry about what I said, please, I just get so nervous is all. I mean, if you had anything at all that was bothering you, you'd tell me, right?"  
  
He wasn't acting like himself. Ever since he'd met Roulé he was rationalizing, _lying_ \- he liked to think that so far everything had remained a white lie, and that the fact he felt uncomfortable about lying still indicated _something_ positive about him, but they were still hollow consolations. It came to him so _easily_ , too, he'd needed no more than a couple of leaps of logic from events that had actually happened to maintain a mask of innocence. Ever since he'd met Roulé, Guy had felt as if he needed to weave some kind of hidden labyrinth around himself to keep both him and the older man in equilibrium; that was fine and dandy when none of his friends were involved, but now that was becoming a genuine risk, and one that he just couldn't take with Thomas on the line.  
  
"... Guy?"  
  
"Nothing," Guy sighed, and stroked the top of Thomas's head. "... nothing at all. Of _course_ I'd tell you."  
  
_Unless it's going to get you hurt, of course. Not that anything will. I won't go there again, Roulé's got nothing to do with me, I'm staying home where I belong._  
  
\-----  
  
And stayed home he did, for the rest of the week. His brief misgivings towards Guy having been replaced with fond anxiety, Thomas began to seek his company more than ever, and would not leave his side; this made it easier for the older boy to forget about anything else, and by Friday or so he almost felt as if the lunch with Roulé had never happened at all. He retook his English test on Wednesday and got it back the day after, having passed with ninety-three percent and allowing him to move past his failure at last.  
  
René never mentioned having seen him in Montmartre. By that point he too appeared to have had passed off his observation as a mistake.  
Guy still felt nervous about it now and then, but nowhere near as heavily as the first time he heard, and resumed enjoying his friends' company at school. The daily journeys back and forth from school remained somewhat difficult - he would often see Roulé out of the corner of his eye, though the older man never approached nor even looked at him much, which helped. He was alive and well. That was all that mattered for the time being. Had things carried on that fashion for a while longer, Guy probably could have gotten over the bizarre things that had happened to him, and eventually Roulé would have become assimilated into what Guy thought of as painfully ordinary.  
  
That was the theory, anyway. In reality, while Roulé wasn't actively _doing_ anything, his inaction did not indicate a surrender to normality. Guy just didn't know that yet.  
  
On Friday, Thomas invited him to sleep over for the weekend, and he accepted without hesitation. It was standard fare: film, popcorn and other snacks, staying up as long as they wanted, and so on. But they hadn't had a sleepover for a long time, not since the beginning of the school year; they _were_ still only in the _Seconde_ , though, they really needed to grab all the free time they could to spend with each other. And really, lounging around in pyjamas from three in the afternoon and all through the evening and night wasn't ever going to be less wonderful, regardless of how old they were.  
  
"Guy, could you help me with the popcorn."  
  
"Mmhmm, give me a second," the older boy called, pausing the film. The contents of his bag - some toiletries, snack wrappers, the open video case, _Swann's Way_ (which he'd brought along as an attempt at bedtime reading) - were scattered on the floor around him, and he paused to sweep them all up on the sofa to clear his surroundings.  
  
"Hurry up already! My arms are about to fall off, here. You really need to feel the need, the need for _speed_ , Guy-Manuel, god _damn_."  
  
" _Hil-la-ri-ous_ ," Guy retorted in overly-accentuated English, rolling his eyes and grinning as he headed to the kitchen. Thomas held two heaping bowls of popcorn in his arms along with a two-liter bottle of cola, and the older boy liberated him of the former to bring them back to the living room, while Thomas turned the lights out in the kitchen and followed. "that one's salted and the other one's...?"  
  
"Butter caramel. Careful, it kind of sticks."  
  
"Fantastic," the film was unpaused. Both boys were very fond of American cinema, especially the ones that were science-fiction or comedy, but _Top Gun_ was one they were fond of watching out of what they perceived as unintentional hilarity. "because that's all I ever wanted in my life, popcorn that sticks. _Zut alors._ This is _amazing_. Where did you buy it?"  
  
Thomas grinned, licking the tips of his fingers, looking very kittenish in that moment. " _Made_ it. Maman taught me. Butter, brown sugar, honey. Pass me a blanket, would you, you've still got a clean hand - ahh, _merci_!"  
  
He might as well do the same. There was a matching blanket next to the one he'd just draped around Thomas, smart blue tartan, and with some effort Guy managed to roll himself into it just as the shower scene came up; both boys covered their eyes half-mockingly at the same time, giggling hysterically throughout it all. " _Um!_ " Thomas chuckled, nudging the older boy with his elbow. "I just can't get used to that, everyone crowded in communal showers, especially the ones set in American highschools. I think they still make their kids shower together. That must feel so _weird_."  
  
"Well, I'm sure glad that France didn't keep that around to this day. Thomas, close your mouth. God, look at him. Those muscles. _Unreal_."  
  
"You've got to give him credit, that's a totally unrealistic _and_ picture perfect body. I couldn't ever hope to be like that. ("Please don't be," Guy interjected, "that amount of muscle would look horrifying on the two of us.") I almost want to-" he picked up the remote and pressed 'pause'. "- stop it right there and use that as reference for the art assignment, never mind what Monsieur Giraud wants to say about a pageful of naked men."  
  
"What art assignment. I never heard a word about this art assignment."  
  
Thomas got up, the blanket still draped around his body, and gestured for him to wait before running upstairs and fetching his satchel. "Here," he said cheerfully, pulling out his sketchbook. "he set it for us after you left Monday afternoon, I meant to tell you and forgot all about it! _Désolé._ It's not due for a while yet, though. Two head and torso sketches of a model, he said, any model, one seen from the front and one from the back."  
  
Guy snorted and nodded towards the still-paused screen. " _Any_ model. _D'accord._ I got you."  
  
Neither of them had _ever_ drawn a nude model. Thomas blushed like he was on fire. "Oh _mon Dieu. Guy_. Trust you to take me _seriously,_ I'm sure he didn't _actually_ mean nudes. Will you be my model, though? You're the only person I know who has time and patience to sit still for two sketches."  
  
"Sure thing. Do you want me shirtless and in a towel, too?"  
  
"Oh, _shut up!_ " Thomas laughed, tossing a handful of popcorn at his hair (where a few stuck). All in all, a perfectly fun and ordinary night. Everything was fine until and right after they went to bed. When they'd been younger they would sleep under blankets in the living room, in sleeping bags, in the bedroom, even outside in the garden a few times - but they were older now and preferred rather warmer-and-easier comforts. He and Thomas would usually share the latter's double bed, an arrangement made possible mostly because they both had very gentle sleeping habits and didn't kick each other or steal all the covers all the time. Just before midnight they curled up in bed together - Thomas lay with his head on Guy's chest for extra warmth, and the older boy let him - and fell asleep without conversation, having quite exhausted themselves with mirth by that point. Then everything went to hell.  
  
\-----  
  
Guy awoke in the middle of the night.  
  
He was prone to doing that whenever he was sleeping over with Thomas. The younger boy still used a nightlight (soft gold, set on his desk, turned up to medium) and Guy himself preferred absolute darkness, though it was never to the extent that he couldn't sleep at all while in the other's bedroom. No, he merely had tiny waking spells that he wouldn't even remember in the morning, usually spent adjusting the pillow or taking his share of the covers back from a fast-asleep Thomas before curling back up to sleep.  
  
This time was a little different, though, because it was the younger boy himself who woke him, albeit unintentionally. When Guy stirred and opened his eyes, having felt an odd nudge near his waist, he saw that Thomas was sitting up on the bed and looking down at himself. Even with the nightlight Guy couldn't see his expression, for Thomas had his back turned to him, but eventually he shifted and shivered a little, moving away from the other. " _Oh_ ," he finally whispered, sounding utterly dismayed. Guy didn't move nor indicate that he was awake, but watched out of the corner of his eye as the younger boy stumbled to his feet and headed over to the dresser, bending down to take something out of the last drawer before leaving the room. Soon he heard a soft click as the light in the bathroom down the corridor was turned on, then the door sliding shut, and then darkness once more.  
  
He didn't fully know what had happened, but he could guess. He already knew that he wouldn't bring it up - _it happens, it's a little weird maybe but that's how it is_ \- nor give away that he'd noticed anything at all. Guy stretched slightly, snuggled against the pillow for a moment, then placed his hands beneath his head, closing his eyes.  
  
The night was deep and silent, and he felt a sense of deep comfort, marred only very slightly by the lack of Thomas's warmth next to his body. Wondering if he ought to turn the nightlight down a little, he blinked his eyes open - turned his head - and met eyes with Roulé, who was sitting by the desk with his copy of _Swann's Way_ laid open in front of him.  
  
He stared at Roulé.  
Roulé stared back at him.  
They stared at each other until the heavier tick of the minute hand broke the silence, then the older man went back to reading, licking the tip of his finger and turning the page with a soft rustle.  
  
I _'m dreaming_ , Guy mouthed, the words coming out only as a faint exhale from his lips, and hid his eyes under his arm. He closed his eyes tightly, took a deep breath, and counted to three. _That's what it is. Wake up, Guillaume - un, deux, trois..._  
  
_... Now._  
  
Guy lowered his arm and sighed out the breath that he'd been holding. Relaxing his entire body, he kept his eyes shut and paid attention to the sounds around him instead: further down the hallway he could faintly hear the sound of running water, outside a car was going twenty or maybe twenty-five, and no more rustling pages could be heard from the desk. Satisfied that he had adequately been woken up, he smiled and opened his eyes, and saw that not only was Roulé still there, he was now kneeling by the bed and _staring right into his face_. The nightlight illuminated the side of his face practically angelic, and his expression was entirely kind, which was probably the only reason that Guy didn't scream out loud.  
  
_No. Oh no. No, no, no. Jesus Christ. Leave me alone._  
  
That, however, didn't mean that he didn't find this situation _utterly horrifying._  
  
He wasn't even mouthing his words that time, but in some weird way, Roulé seemed to be able to _hear_ him. His eyes gleamed near red in the light as he quietly shook his head; reaching for Guy's left hand, the one closest to him, he gently coaxed his palm open and began to trace words upon it with a finger. Guy's eyes followed what he was doing, but he himself was utterly paralyzed, every nerve in his body hypertensed and focused on interpreting Roulé's message.  
  
[Hope I didn't interrupt you you've gotten far in your Proust I'm impressed]  
  
_What the hell is this? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?_  
  
[Well I just had sex I'm not dead  
I don't know if that gives you any comfort]  
  
_Oh my God. Roulé. I did not need to know that._  
  
[I'll tell you what you need to know]  
  
The sound of Thomas's footsteps interrupted Roulé, who fell 'silent' as the boy entered the room and slipped into bed again. He was wearing a different set of pyjamas now, solid navy instead of checked blue, and curled up facing Guy as soon as his head hit the pillow; he hadn't noticed Roulé at all, and as Guy had previously suspected, was likely incapable of seeing him altogether. As soon as Thomas had done so, Roulé resumed, not acknowledging the younger boy otherwise.  
  
[We're connected we both are  
there is no cure for that]  
  
This was awful. Absolutely _awful._  
If there was a time where he could have used his friend's help, and he'd had several in the past, right now surely qualified as the most urgent of them. Roulé was squeezing his hand tighter now, his expression entirely serious as he gazed into Guy's eyes.  
  
[It has to be you I will be waiting in Montmartre]  
  
Out of everything else this caused Guy the most distress of all. By this time, even before the fact that Roulé had intruded in this house, he was exhausted and frightened and _just wanted to go to bed_. "Now _wait just a second_ -!" he exclaimed before he clapped a hand to his mouth, both his voice and movement having returned to him as if a string had snapped somewhere. He glanced quickly over at Thomas, finding to his relief that the boy was still fast asleep, and when he turned towards the desk he saw that Roulé was gone. There was no book on the desk, the nightlight emitted a honey-soft glow as always, and the desk chair was neatly back in place as if no one had been there.  
  
_Oh._  
  
Guy shivered and buried his face in his hands.  
  
_Oh, my God._  
  
His mouth felt dry; he couldn't stop trembling; worse, the emotion he was trembling under was not entirely fear. Even now, whenever he opened and closed his palm he could feel the after-sensation of Roulé writing on it, something that he'd never felt with the older man. His touches were usually light and melted away quickly, but these ones, they lingered with a tangible pressure, and Guy couldn't understand why Roulé-in-a-dream had felt so much _more_ real than the actual Roulé.  
  
_I need a drink_ , he thought, and weakly heaved himself off the bed, stumbling out of the room and all the way downstairs to the kitchen. He fetched himself a glass, not caring about the remnants of cola still in it; he turned the tap on, filled the glass, and drank all of it in one go. The ice-cold liquid rushing down his throat grounded him back into reality, and he filled the glass up again to take upstairs with him, desperately wanting to cling onto sanity. It had been a nightmare, nothing more - there was no reason for Roulé to want him around-  
  
Something thudded faintly in the living room. Guy froze with his left foot already on the stairs. _Leave it be, leave it alone,_ his mind screamed, but he had to check it out now. If something strange was happening, the earlier he knew the better; if nothing was happening, he had the reassurance of knowing that he was overreacting. He turned mechanically towards the living room, setting the glass down on a nearby coffee-table that he felt around for with his foot, and took a deep breath.  
  
He turned the light on and looked. There was a massive crack on the wall. The book that he'd left on the sofa was gone.  
Then, only _then_ , did his legs gave way from under him.  
  
\-----  
  
When Thomas awoke at five in the morning, he found himself alone on the bed. Blinking in confusion, he touched the empty space next to him, and found it cold. That made the younger boy panic and rouse himself hurriedly; he tugged his dressing gown over himself and near-sprinted downstairs with no regard to the noise that he was making. He found Guy sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by empty popcorn bowls, pillows, glasses, and other remnants of the evening before, staring fixedly at the wall and furiously muttering something under his breath. From the looks of things, he had been there for a long time. "... G-Guy?"  
  
The older boy didn't answer. In fact, he didn't look as if he'd registered Thomas's presence at all; he simply carried on staring ahead, wide-eyed and haunted. "Are you all right?" Thomas whispered, nervous to approach but even more anxious about leaving him alone. "... you... you don't sound like yourself."  
  
Guy shivered, and buried his head into his knees. That pushed Thomas into action; when he knelt quickly next to the other and bent his head, he could hear exactly what Guy was saying, but knowing that proved to be of no help. "Go away," the older boy was moaning faintly, sounding utterly anguished. "go away, _please_. _Go away_."  
  
Granted, Guy was frantically appealing to someone/something completely different, but the younger boy had no idea of knowing that. So Thomas just stayed there for a long time, feeling baffled and hurt, staring at Guy who was staring at the crack in the wall that only he could see. He'd never seen the other like this, Guy had always been the more stable one out of all of his friends. Thomas had often wanted him to open up a little more, rather, because the older boy was often too stoic for his age - but this wasn't opening up, this was a _breakdown_ , and he had no idea how to handle it.  
  
_... Was he... talking to me? Is he telling me to leave him alone?_  
  
"Look at me, please?" Thomas whispered faintly, but it fell on deaf ears. Guy was clutching his legs so hard that his knuckles were turning white. He had to stop this somehow; he tried to wrap his arms around the older boy and received no reaction in response. "oh my God, Guy, _please talk to me_. I don't know what you want me to do."  
  
Thomas did not know that this would directly lead to Guy 'returning', though it wasn't because the younger boy had _done_ anything.  
As he tightened his grip on the other, his foot nudged against the coffee-table and jostled it sharply; he quickly moved out of the way, but not quickly enough for the precariously-balanced glass that Guy had set down upon it earlier.  
  
"Go aw-"  
  
_Crash._ The glass had toppled to the floor and shattered.  
Guy stopped mid-word, and swayed lightly, before slumping into Thomas's arms - his own trance finally broken, leaving him pale and worn-out but back in the real world again. He blinked a couple of times, his blue eyes slowly regaining focus, then lifted a shaking hand to touch the other's cheek. "... _Thom?_ "  
  
"Yes," Thomas answered, gripping his hand. "yes, it's me."  
  
"Oh, Jesus _Christ,_ " the older boy whispered, his fingers tightening around the other's gown. "Thomas, I had a horrible nightmare, but... but it was so god-damn _beautiful_."  
  
\-----  
  
It was a sign, he was sure of it.  
  
Guy calmed down significantly after breakfast, and had gone as far as to retell Thomas a little of what he had seen and experienced, though by that point some of it was already fading from his mind. He described that sensation of floating in a void, how his voice wouldn't let him speak or scream, how he'd dreamed that Thomas's house was falling apart (at which point the younger boy wholeheartedly understood how horrifying it must have been). "But what was so _beautiful_ about that?" Thomas had asked, puzzled.  
  
Roulé remained the only aspect that he had said absolutely nothing of; unfortunately all beauty in what he'd experienced had been contained in him, so he couldn't tell. And quite frankly, Guy knew now that it was too late for that; he was entangled too deep, unable to passively resist Roulé's presence in his life, and he wanted Thomas even _less_ involved in any of it. "Damn it if I know, Thom, damn it if I can remember. I just know that it was."  
  
The older man was calling, and he had to answer. There was no question about that.  
  
Oh, of course he'd been _angry_ about it. Cursed Roulé to hell and back, even.  
But once the initial fear and anguish had worn off, Guy had begun to consider what Roulé had told him in seriousness, and found his plea - _it has to be you_ \- more touching than he'd imagined it to be. In all his sixteen years of age he had wanted many things, and he'd been asked and included in many things, but he'd never felt exclusively _singled out_ by someone. He'd never felt that flutter of first love, finding such things to be 'probably nice, but not necessary', and his relationships with Thomas and his other friends had all grown steadily and organically. Never had someone come along and _claimed_ him as necessary to their lives, had _demanded_ his attention so boldly; as strange and uncomfortable as he'd found it at first, it was not an easily-ignored feeling, this need.  
  
He didn't know about that, specifically, but he knew it to be quite natural that people had wants and needs. If someone was ready to _tear a hole in reality_ to seek out Guy, he must be needed extremely badly indeed, and that couldn't be undermined.  
  
Guy left Thomas's house around three in the afternoon, and after half an hour found himself back in front of the apartment building again, having decided to comply with Roulé's wishes as much as he could manage. He didn't take the elevator this time, building up his anticipation with every step upwards to Roulé; he was the type to pace when feeling anxious, finding that it helped to sort out his feelings, and thus found himself calm and collected by the time he'd reached the older man's door. It was wide open today, and strands of quiet, soft piano music drifted from within, inviting him in coyly.  
  
"Roulé," he called, went inside and shut the door behind him. "it's me."  
  
The man was nowhere to be seen. Guy shrugged and took off his bag and jacket, hanging them up both by the door as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing. Somewhere behind him a door creaked and slow footsteps sounded behind him; he turned around and saw Roulé himself standing there, smiling and entirely unsurprised, already holding up a note.  
  
[Good afternoon I knew you'd come back would you like some cake]  
  
"I can't stay," was his immediate and insincere response, but he went and sat down on the couch anyway. ( _But I couldn't stay away either_ , he added silently as he watched the expanse of the older man's back.) Roulé pocketed the note as he did so, heading towards the kitchen. It wasn't long before he returned with a slim glass of rose champagne and a slice of apple cake on a snow-white plate, setting them down on the glass table in front of Guy and placing a fork next to the arrangement. It was only a small slice, barely a sixteenth of the whole, but Guy knew upon looking at it that it would be more than enough. He'd had no idea that Roulé could cook, but it appeared to be the case that he could and was good at it. The presentation of the cake was certainly very attractive, its surface speckled with sugar powder and drizzled with a dark red syrup.  
  
Nine bites. Nine bites, and he'd probably be done with it.  
Guy picked up the fork without hesitation.  
  
"You know, Roulé."  
  
He cut into the cake. Roulé sat down next to him and watched.  
  
"I won't ask why you came to visit me last night," Guy continued, brought to the fork to his mouth, and fell silent as he chewed. The cake was moist and sweet, but the syrup had a sharp flavour that he identified as that of pomegranate, and the flavours balanced out nicely. "but I know it was you, as illogical as that sounds. I trust what I saw."  
  
He lifted the fork again and took a second bite. Roulé's expression remained still.  
  
"... I really don't know _why_ you do the things that you do, nor what you want from me."  
  
A third.  
  
"I don't even know who you _are_."  
  
That made Roulé frown, and Guy briefly wondered if he'd taken offense. But he carried on, feeling that he'd already gone too far to stop, and speared the fourth morsel on his fork (though he didn't eat it). "All I know is that you're here, and for some reason, you _really_ wanted me to know that," he said, and paused for a sip of the champagne, finding to some surprise that it tasted almost exactly like a soft drink. It wasn't until the liquid had made its way down his throat that he observed, wryly, that he was still capable of being surprised. Surely that alone made him worthy of being around Roulé, that all of this had happened and he'd still kept his sense of wonder. It made him _persevere_. In an odd way, that made him proud.  
  
"So."  
  
The fourth bite was taken - he came across a piece of still-crisp apple, and appreciated it thoroughly - alongside another sip of the champagne.  
  
"Thanks for letting me know."  
  
The fifth. He was past the halfway point now, and Roulé was leaning in, looking intrigued. Something new and exciting was about to begin.  
  
"I really do mean that. I honestly have no idea how _much_ I can help you, or whether all I can do is just to stick around for a while, but you've convinced to try, at least." and the sixth. "... please just fix that wall in Thomas's house, if that's where you came in. And please don't randomly come to visit me at night. That was _terrifying._ "  
  
Having thus presented his terms, he took the time to fall silent and look properly at Roulé, doing his best to meet his gaze instead of merely _glancing_ as he had done before. The older man had the decency to look abashed at hearing that he'd terrified Guy, at least, looking away first and giving him a barely-perceptible nod. How could he stay angry, looking at that? Roulé was a lot of things, but despite everything he was so innocent and amiable that Guy genuinely couldn't believe that he'd ever intended to frighten him. "... That's my compromise," he said. "you obviously need me, so I'll stay, I give you my word - but work with me, please."  
  
Seven, then eight, with more syrup on top. Roulé nodded again.  
  
"Good. Then we're all clear."  
  
Only the last bite remained now. He picked up the whole plate and set it on his lap, spearing the morsel and thoughtfully mopping up the last of the pomegranate syrup with it. After this he would thank Roulé and go, if the older man would let him; before he could eat, however, he was stopped by Roulé's hand on his, pushing it gently back down onto the plate. "Yes?" he asked. Roulé gestured for the fork. Bewildered, he let him have it, only to look at him with surprise as the man gently touched his cheek and lifted the fork to his mouth. But that moment of hesitation did not last long, and after a second he leaned forwards and let Roulé feed him the final mouthful.  
  
He'd intended to make the contact brief. But the instant he opened his mouth and felt the soft cake press against his tongue, he felt what he could only describe as a hot, sweet _invasion_ spreading through his body along with the awareness of what he was allowing Roulé to do. In half a panic he resisted, biting down at the end of the fork slightly; but before long the taste took over and he moaned weakly, allowing Roulé to slip the fork further into his mouth.  
  
"Hah-"  
  
Guy's lips closed around the fork, and he swallowed heavily before licking the silverware clean in a daze. Without the cake to balance it out, the thick pomegranate syrup lingered at the tip of his tongue, so intense that he could almost _count_ the individual seeds that had gone into making it. Five or six, maybe, all bursting with flavour and purpose. As Roulé withdrew the fork carefully, Guy felt the sense of something _falling_ , and knew that there was no looking back.  
  
"... _ahh_..."  
  
The older man's expression had remained unchanged, unlike Guy, who was blushing furiously.  
The fork was set down, clinking on the plate as if to drive home that Guy had accepted Roulé's food, and by extension his presence in his life. Quietly he offered out the rest of the champagne to Guy, patting him on the shoulder once before standing up; the boy let him go, watching him disappear into his bedroom, sipping lethargically at the drink. Only when the champagne had been finished down to the last drop did he follow, still dizzy from what had just happened to him, leaning against the doorway and gazing around the room.  
  
He'd never seen Roulé's bedroom before. It was the most brightly lit room in the house (which wasn't saying much), with windows flanked with black-velvet curtains; all the walls were white and clean, there was a simple vanity table with yet another notepad-and-pen combination set atop it, a wardrobe holding what looked like multiple articles of the exact same clothing stood off to the side, and Roulé himself was currently standing in front of the mirror, having changed his outfit into something more formal. He caught sight of Guy in the mirror and beckoned him in, carefully moving off to the side so he wasn't blocking the boy's path to the door; he wanted the boy to _trust_ him, that much was obvious.  
  
"Your room is nice," Guy said quietly. Roulé smiled and touched his hand to his chest, indicating his thanks. Then he reached out and tapped at the nearest wall; taped upon it were a few dozen phrases, probably the ones that he asked the most often to his clients. The thought made him uncomfortable, but Guy leaned forwards to read the one Roulé had pointed out, finding to his relief that it was something neutral.  
  
[How do I look]  
  
He looked. Roulé wore a pristine-white shirt with black suspenders and trousers, the top button of his shirt left open coyly. With a bowtie or a plain necktie, perhaps with a full tux, he'd look ready to be out and about again. He looked _good_ , exactly as young and handsome as Guy had felt him to be when he'd first seen him, no more or less - but before he could express this sentiment, Roulé let out a silent _oh_ as he remembered something else, grabbing the notepad to write another message and placing it above the question.  
  
[Guess that wasn't the right question  
how do I look aside from like a whore I meant]  
  
Damn him, why did he always have to complicate matters like this? Guy bit his lower lip in dismay, not liking the way that gentle, slightly-mocking smirk was back on Roulé's lips again. He couldn't very well ignore the last half of the question, that would be acknowledging that Roulé indeed 'looked like a whore' and all the connotations that went along with it. But he was hardly about to say that he _didn't_ look like one, either, for that would only be another way of dismissing the other's lifestyle, and Guy genuinely didn't feel that way. Whatever Roulé's reasons were for doing what he did and being the way he was, Guy knew that that was entirely his business, and the man only had any business in the first place because that was what he was - a _man_ , a _human being_ , someone deserving of respect.  
  
"Entirely like yourself," Guy answered, looking into the other's eyes, and meant it.  
  
Roulé blinked and gazed at him in surprise, clearly not having expected that response - but it wasn't long before a soft glow rose to his cheeks and he smiled wide in pleasure. From that alone Guy knew that he had given the right answer, indeed the _only_ right one, and was immensely relieved. The taste of pomegranate lingered in his mouth still, tart and heavy, when he licked over his lower lip and attempted to say something - that taste made him pause, and during that time Roulé rewarded his answer with his grace, gently taking him by both hands and leading him out of the bedroom. His hands were cool and smooth. Back to the couch they went, and Guy sat down while the older man knelt on one knee on the floor, gazing expectantly at him.  
  
It was quite romantic, but not in a way that Guy could identify with. Their positions resembled, superficially, that of courting - an ideal, something out of a paperback novel or a painting. But what Guy felt as he looked down at Roulé wasn't a violent or heated passion like that. No, he merely had a feeling of _things falling into place_ , of infinite, simple, gentle peace, deeply familiar and yet not. He was reminded of the previous night, how Thomas had nuzzled into his chest for warmth; he couldn't help but wonder if he came across as seeking something similar, except that he was appealing to Roulé instead.  
  
Roulé might have had a more complex agenda than he'd first thought, but they _had_ settled a score of some sort. Now he was actually free to go, if he wanted.  
And as strange as it was, Guy _didn't_ want to, not just yet, not when there was so much for him to discover even now. He looked down at Roulé for a long time, letting the last of the afternoon fill up around them, hyperaware of the ticking of the clock and the smell of clothes and cologne. When he breathed in, the other's now-familiar scent tickled his nose.  
  
But that was all. _Familiar_ , in the sense that he'd been exposed to it many times in the past couple of weeks, nothing else.  
Roulé's scent was mild, sweet, mature - and at the same time carried an air of intense tragedy, for Guy could sense none of that uniquely-personal aroma of the individual within it. He thought of Thomas who so often smelled of mint toothpaste, slightly-damp skin and warm caramel; that was a combination that Guy associated with him and no one else. _Everyone_ in the world had a base note that was solely theirs. Everyone, that was, except Roulé. After a long bath or shower (devoid of any scented products), he could just imagine the older man coming out of it smelling of absolutely _nothing_ at all, and wondered if this was what it was like to become an adult, lost in responsibilities and an identity never quite theirs, searching for what had been lost in time.  
  
Roulé had lost _something_ very important, beyond the mere lack of his voice and scent.  
Guy recognized that. Clearly, before him, no one had. By virtue of him having done so, he was qualified to do something for the older man - what _exactly_ , he didn't know, and he certainly couldn't restore his physical attributes, but only he was capable of doing anything about this situation. He knew that now. As if reading into that small epiphany, Roulé brought up a hand and touched his knee for a second, giving him a hopeful look.  
  
"Thanks," the boy mumbled faintly. His fingers relaxed, hesitated - and cupped around Roulé's cheek, reciprocating that touch in the Métro a week ago. "... and... sorry... for making you wait."  
  
The older man leaned into his hand, eyes half-closed contentedly like a cat, his own hands caressing the back of Guy's own in seeming worship. He blinked and his eyelashes fluttered against the boy's palm, just once, gentle like the whisper of cherry blossoms in spring; he held that position for over five minutes before lazily reaching for the pen with his left hand, cradling the other's hand against his cheek like a phone receiver, writing upside-down for Guy's eyes only.  
  
[No worries you're worth every minute]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I lied this is the final update before my exams  
> GOD I LOVE IT WHEN I HAVE WORDCOUNT CREEPING SYNDROME WITH EVERY CHAPTER. This chapter is about 3000-4000 words longer than the previous two ahaha.
> 
> I swear to God Roulé is genuinely not a horrorshow.  
> He's incredibly innocent. Innocent just doesn't mean conventionally _good_.
> 
> * The greeting gesture of the waitress is French Sign Language for 'hello'.  
> * So far this chapter has had the most links with La Chanson d'un Ange. There will be more.  
> * I heard about this use of the German imperfect/perfect in my German class, that the former is more writing and narration based and the latter is more what people speak. I've found plenty to back that up. If anyone can genuinely confirm, though, I would be glad... I do like the imperfect, it seems so elegant.  
> * Communal showers: do you have them? I'm in the UK, never saw them as constructs while I was in school.  
> * Those of you familiar with your Greco-Roman mythology know what the deal is with pomegranates.
> 
> Again, comments, kudos, questions, criticisms, all welcome <3333


	4. Aufklärung

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 04) - ' _Aufklärung'_**

\------------------

It was decided, then. Guy was now to cater to another dimension to his life; once the initial shock and confusion had faded, he kept to his word, and kept it faithfully.  
  
From that Saturday, for a week, Guy visited Roulé as much as he could. This was mostly in the late-afternoon and at least twice in the evenings after school had let out for the day, and involved a great deal of coming home late. It was just as well that it was May now - the end-of-year exams would begin not too long after this. Last year, around this time, Guy - being the most studious out of his friends - had studied for an hour or two every day after school in the library, going through his notes and trying to fill in anything he'd missed or didn't remember. This revision method had worked for him then, which meant that his parents had no reason to doubt him when he told them that this year he was doing the same thing. In reality, he only went down there long enough for Thomas to have said goodbye to him and headed to the Métro himself, before packing up and following in his footsteps.  
  
Thomas had asked to join a couple of times, but had withdrawn after Guy had stated his desire to be uninterrupted. Just as well. Guy had been alone for those sessions last year, too. His morning commutes still remained the same, and Roulé seemed to have caught onto his desire to keep those times for Thomas only, as he quietly disappeared from the Métro during all weekdays save for Tuesdays after his and Guy's agreement. His time and space was divided into logical, manageable halves now, and that suited the boy just fine. He had to catch up on his schoolwork at home, of course, but helping a man in need was more important than integrating functions. At least, that was his mantra when he inevitably ended up going to bed every night in a state of absolute exhaustion, and it was not an ineffectual one.  
  
During that week he familiarized himself with Roulé's apartment; he'd been given a copy of the key, he was to consider this place partially his own as well. He still found it an odd and impersonal place, but once he'd ventured into every room and taken note of his surroundings, he got used to it quickly. It wasn't as if the apartment was completely _lacking_ in its own unique touches, either; Roulé always had a pomegranate somewhere in the kitchen, either in the cupboard, the counter or the fridge. Guy never saw more than one at a time, but they were always there, always reminding the boy of his promise. For some reason he also had a phone in the living room, though it never rung and Guy couldn't see how he managed to _do_ anything with it; while he'd never asked, he had a theory that Roulé could communicate with a few select people via a sequence of phone rings, or that it was just there for other people's sake. Roulé was popular in his own way; the vanity table in his bedroom had a vase of pink roses sitting on it, and every couple of days they were replaced with visibly-new ones. He'd asked the older man about it, and had received the surprising answer that the people he saw the most often - his 'admirers', Guy liked to think - were the ones who gifted them to him.  
  
Every time he visited, Roulé would give him a glass of champagne, wine or a cup of coffee (he seemed to keep no other type of drink in the place) and some sort of refreshment. The latter varied all the time - madeleine, pomegranate seeds, a sliver of chocolate torte, apple slices and so on - but never did Roulé _feed_ them to him as he had done with the cake, never did that moment repeat itself. That was, however, a good thing. Whenever the boy thought about it his lips would tingle, and he knew that the _magic_ of the moment - as skeptical he was about the word - would have faded into nothing if similar things kept on happening. There were so many things that he wanted to know and ask, and so many things that he wasn't convinced were occurring exactly the way he saw them, but there was still time to sit down and enjoy the good food and pleasant silence.  
  
Whether sorcery or explainable tricks of the eye, he could afford to be patient.  
They weren't going anywhere, after all, not for a while.  
  
Roulé finally returned his copy of _Swann's Way_ on that following Sunday; he seemed to treat all his own well-read books with a certain veneration, and Guy suspected that the older man had been playfully holding the book 'hostage' as a way of keeping the two of them bound together, to ensure that the boy would keep returning. (He'd have come nonetheless; _Swann's Way_ had little to do with it, ever since Roulé had appeared in his life he hadn't progressed further with that book than the narrator's budding love for the earnest young Odette, which he'd found all rather overwrought.) Well, he had it back now, the older man had presented it to him alongside another slice of apple-pomegranate cake. " _Merci_ ," Guy said with not a small relief as he took it and thumbed through the pages. His own bookmark was even still in place. "did you finish reading it, too?"  
  
[Yes I did it's been a while since I've been able to indulge in Proust good thing about him is that when you skip him you never skip the same sections twice]  
  
The boy laughed. "I'd identify with that more if I'd actually _finished_ it! I'll try to make it through twice at least, keeping in mind what you said," Roulé smiled softly at that, and ran his fingers through his own hair. His glasses were round-rimmed today, and his hair seemed curlier than ever, giving him a particularly bookish appearance. "are you off soon?"  
  
[Not until eight and it's nothing serious they just want some company for dinner  
there's another book that I'd like to recommend you it's on the middle shelf]  
  
"What book?" Guy asked, but the older man merely got up and headed towards his bedroom without looking back. That usually meant that he was going to choose an outfit for the night, or actually change into one, or (more rarely) that he was going to open a couple of windows. Shrugging, he took one more bite of cake before standing up and peering towards the bookshelf; sure enough a book with a red cover was pulled out of the middle shelf and set in front of the others. When he got there he needed to tiptoe just a little to take the book in his hands, but managed to pull it down without trouble nonetheless, reading the title out loud. "... ' _Aimez-vous Brahms_?'"  
  
At that moment he heard a click by his side and quickly turned to look. Roulé had emerged soundlessly from his room while he'd been fetching the book, and he was now kneeling in front of the stereo with an empty CD case in hand, the dulcet tones of a symphony beginning to play from it. He turned down the volume just so that the music remained in the background, then stood up and dusted his knees, his expression casual as if nothing had happened; he put the empty case atop the stereo, nodded at Guy and only then retreated to his room to search for his shoes. _Symphony No. 3 in F Major, Op. 90_ , Guy read on the CD when he was gone, _by Brahms_. It was then that he realized that Roulé had an off-beat sense of humour, and could do nothing but silently groan and press his hand to his forehead.  
  
Not that he complained. He was more relieved that Roulé actually had one of those. That wasn't the only surprise that Roulé had had in store for him that day, either; Guy took the book home, and opened it proper several hours later when he was in bed. A piece of paper, A6-sized and edged with black, fell out the moment he flicked to the first page - he picked it up, flipped it over, and stared at what was written on it for so long that he quite forgot to even start on the novel proper. Nothing special had been written on it, but - Roulé had his ways of _reminding_ him of his presence, he was understanding that better with each passing day.  
  
Yes, his life was different now. Part of him still questioned the suddenness of it, but then life wasn't one to give warnings about every single thing. Besides, Guy was finding the experience more laid-back and pleasant than he'd ever expected it to be; the company he was keeping never lacked in mystery nor insight; without being totally conscious of it, he had been well and truly drawn into the man's allure.  
  
Guy was hopelessly lost, there was no doubt about that.  
  
\----  
  
But whenever he looked at the book, and the note, which from then on he kept in his wallet-  
  
[ _Merci beaucoup je t'attends toujours_ ]  
  
\- he wasn't sure if that was a _bad thing._  
  
\-----  
  
It was now Tuesday, a full month now since he'd first encountered Roulé. Guy had just finished scribbling down his lunchtime snack (he had a curious craving for strawberry milk instead of chocolate that day, and Laurent was buying) when he heard his name being called. " _Monsieur de Homem-Christo!_ "  
  
" _Oui, Madame!_ " he called back, hastily shoving the note into Thomas's already-waiting hand. The teacher held out a piece of paper in his direction; he got up, walked to the front of the class and took it before returning to his seat. The tests they'd done last week were being handed out - he glanced at the top of the page, nodding in satisfaction. Ninety-five percent with a silver star sticker for show, better than last time, he was back on track with the subject. As long as his reading and writing scores were high, he imagined that his more hesitant English _speech_ could well be forgiven.  
  
" _Bien fait!_ " Thomas whispered to him, giving him a playful nudge on the shoulder before he too had to collect his test. He came back with a bright smile and a sweet, proud air of loftiness; ninety-seven percent, also with a sticker on top. (His was the highest grade in the class, though neither of them knew it.) "and well done to _me_ , too, I think! What did you write down for seventeen part b?"  
  
Guy looked. He'd gotten that one right, much to his relief. "... _'I've got a lot "on" my mind at the moment'. Pourquoi?_ Did you write _'in'_ instead or something?"  
  
" _Exactement,_ " the younger boy sighed, and corrected it with a small pout. "all from the difference of a single letter! Though it's not like it makes sense - a mind isn't something you put anything _on_ -"  
  
"Arguably it's not a _thing_ in the first place, Thom. I don't get it either, but that's how it is. We still did well, _non?_ "  
  
"Hell yeah," Thomas leaned forwards and extended his hand underneath the desk, palm facing Guy, and the older boy high-fived him with a quiet laugh. "plus, we got stickers. Who else in the school gives out stickers for a good mark? Forget everything else, that's just _cool_."  
  
Guy snickered. "You're still won over by stickers?"  
  
"Yes, but _especially_ if they're stars," Thomas replied airily, tucking the test back into his bag and then turning to grin cheekily at his friend. "and not just any stars, silver stars are the best. Most stickers are all right, but when it comes to being really impressed I do have _some_ standards, you know, Guy. What, _you_ don't like stickers?"  
  
"I, um, don't _have_ an opinion either way-"  
  
"Oh, you can tell me up straight, you know that. Just four months ago you loved them more than I ever have in my life. So much that you weren't content with your own, you bastard."  
  
"What-" then Guy remembered. Of course! On Thomas's birthday they'd gone to a club together, shivering with both excitement and the January-evening weather as they entered together and were given club stamps and a star sticker on the backs of their hands. They had been dressed in short-sleeved shirts despite the cold weather, knowing that they would have nowhere to put their outerwear once they were in the club, and also that they'd warm up quickly enough. The younger boy's arm lay brushing against his on the desk, and Guy looked down at them, for a moment remembering the streak of xenon-lighting and how Thomas had so eagerly pumped his fists in perfect time to the music, how their fingers had locked damp and close multiple times through the night. "... oh, that... yeah, when I put your sticker and mine-"  
  
"Right here," Thomas laughed quietly, and reached to pat Guy's cheek - he had stuck one silver star on each cheek back then, having playfully tugged off Thomas's own an hour into their stay, and had walked around like that for the rest of the night. "they looked really good on you, too. Made you look... look _cute_. You being there made for an awesome birthday, that's for sure."  
  
"Is that why you like them? Pleasant reminders?"  
  
Thomas's gaze was unwavering, though his own face was slightly pink. "Mm-hmm."  
  
Granted, the boys were each referring to slightly different things when they spoke of star stickers of being 'reminders', but at that point the teacher resumed the lesson from where they'd left off, and they had no opportunity to talk any further than that. What was important was that Guy had taken Thomas to be referring to his birthday in general, and with that his own fond memories of the night arose; when they were together they always laughed a lot, but that night had been a particularly memorable example. They had both been too young to buy alcohol in the club so they'd made do with several ice-cold glasses of Coke instead, the sugar rush might have been a contributing factor in their mutually elated mood - that, and of course, the stickers, from what Thomas was saying. Guy touched his cheek again, and smiled.  
  
As the lesson wore on and the minutes ticked past, all semblance of concentration was slipping out of the two of them, although that was through no fault of the teacher. It was just too close to lunchtime and freedom. Even Thomas, usually bright-eyed and attentive, had begun to doodle mindlessly on the edge of his notebook; Guy watched him doing so with a just as blank expression on his face, all the while wondering absent-mindedly if _Roulé_ had friends. The conversation with Thomas had gotten him thinking about partying in general again, and with that the older man's picture had come into his mind and wouldn't leave him alone. He hadn't seen the man in the Métro this morning, which had led him to believe that he was doing 'overtime'. Even if his approaches to Guy had been unconventional, the boy understood that Roulé must have been good at interacting with people beyond the physical, and in well-accepted ways, if he was so sought after by his clients. What did he _do_ when he wasn't working or seeing Guy? Did he spend his days alone, or did he actually enjoy platonic company with some people and celebrate occasions with them? He knew so little about Roulé as a person even now.  
  
Though, he liked to think, it really wasn't for the lack of trying. Guy gazed out of the window, wondering what his visit to Roulé's apartment that afternoon would be like - and until Thomas rested a hand on his shoulder for lunch, sat there deep in thought.  
  
\-----  
  
_"Attention à la marche en descendant du train!"_  
  
Several hours later, Guy was back on the Métro, nearing the end of his ride. As the end of the school day had neared so had his fascinations about Roulé - this was the usual pattern of his thoughts now, starting the day with Thomas, his friends and thoughts of schoolwork then ending by inevitably pondering the mystery that was Roulé. Making conversation with a mute young man had proven to be far more interesting and insightful than he could have ever imagined, none of his visits were ever identical or boring in the slightest. Even yesterday, one of his shortest visits, had been charming: Roulé had been busying himself with getting ready for the night, so he hadn't been able to stay for more than forty minutes, but in that short timeframe they managed to talk a little bit about Roulé's past and Guy had accepted a chocolate cookie from him before the older man excused himself politely to get changed. He'd come out wearing a sharp-fitting white tuxedo and bowtie, and had rather vainly sought Guy's approval on the outfit, straightening his jacket with a self-satisfied smirk on his face once he'd felt complimented enough. And why shouldn't he have done so? He clearly knew himself to be handsome. Guy smiled just a little, amused, and leaned against the rail. He liked it that he was getting to see more aspects of the man with each day, filling in the full range from his noble sophistication to the rare moments of cloying childishness - Roulé became far more grounded in reality with all that he observed, and he wanted to know more, even though getting anything out of him at will was proving to be a challenge.  
  
" _Blanche!_ " came the announcement, and two women sitting in front of him got up and headed towards the doors. His stop was next, but having had a long day himself, Guy thought it justified to sit down for a couple of minutes, and did so; while he was at it, he opened his satchel and pulled out the book that Roulé had given him, having been reminded of something. From between its pages he tugged out two folded sheets of notepaper, all sides covered with the man's thin handwriting.  
  
There was more to this 'series', but he'd only brought the first two pages to attempt to decipher them in his own time. Part of his quest to 'know more' about Roulé had involved Guy saying early on that he wanted to hear the man's story, an offer received by genuine surprise from the other; he'd held both hands to his chest in a slightly-uneasy but mostly joyous gratitude when he'd heard that, clarifying his sentiment with a heartfelt note.  
  
[No one's wanted to hear me out before I'm very grateful to you I honestly am]  
  
And it had become evident, _extremely_ quickly, why that had been the case: Roulé's memories were, for the lack of a better word, _broken_. Guy had begun by asking him, slowly, general questions about his life: where he'd come from, what he'd done before settling in Montmartre and his current job, all of those things. But the further back the older man was asked to remember the increasingly _confused_ his memories became, until neither Guy nor even himself seemed able to make sense of any of it. This clearly distressed Roulé, but he persisted, which was even more problematic for the boy. Guy had so often asked something that he'd thought was simple, only to stare on in dismay as the man began writing and simply refused to stop, scrawling a narrative that lay fragmented too heavily to piece together.  
  
[- I barely had any suits to wear and I think I fixed up old clothes by hand to wear because I was so poor but I'm not even sure whether I had a wardrobe or closet to put them in nor a desk to write on but I have always liked writing and did write a little back then so I have no idea where I would have scribbled on if I had no desk at all but I suppose I could have done so kneeling or lying on the floor but I can't be sure and as for entertainment I don't remember if I listened to cassettes or if I had a record player but no I think that was later on when I moved elsewhere but I am certain I listened to music yes I am most definitely certain and maybe I listened to classical or punk music but now that I think about it I was always writing something and I'm not sure whether that was here in Montmartre or Poitiers or Marseilles but it is very strange that I can't remember much of this seeing as all I wrote back then were attempts to remember and come to terms with my past but no matter how much I tried it was a disappointment and to this day I have no idea what my purpose in life is or even how I wrote those pieces or whether I had a desk or not or if I wrote it lying on my stomach or whether I wrote it with pencil or a fountain pen but perhaps I didn't write anything with a fountain pen and perhaps when I was moving from Bordeaux to Paris I lost it in the train and I remember vague things about the exterior of the apartment like the strands of Aria on G-String on my old and scratchy record player as I looked out into the night and retreated inside and I think there was moonlight drifting in but really I don't remember anything much about the place-]  
  
_Oh, dear God..._  
  
Madness. Guy put down the offending pages and sighed. He didn't even know where to _begin_ with this. Those two pages were part of the last question that he'd asked - an innocuous 'have you lived anywhere else?' - and that alone had made Roulé write frantically for over ten minutes before he'd been persuaded to stop. Whenever the boy remembered it, it gave him headaches. He still saved all of Roulé's notes just in case, trying to parse them, but any information they yielded lasted so little before being contradicted with something else altogether. He was no closer to understanding Roulé than he had been when he wouldn't have recognized him from Adam himself.  
  
" _Pigalle!_ " the announcement chirped, and he stashed the pages back in his bag before standing up. At the same time, Guy consoled himself as the train slowed, they _had_ only known each other for a month. After another month or two, for all he could reasonably judge, he would be able to know better where he and the older man stood. Why, already the journey from the station to Roulé's apartment was taking less time, as he was no longer as wary of his surroundings as before, and his pacing had become more confident. He was no longer even running into clients who'd just been finished with Roulé, as he now had a place in the man's schedule and had been allocated his own portion of the other's time.  
  
Roulé had disturbed him so much at the start partially because he had been a presence too chaotic for the boy to accommodate. Guy liked order; this current arrangement, while it was exhausting at times, suited him infinitely better. He entered the apartment building and ran up the stairs all the way to the fourth floor with ease, now preferring that over the elevator. It was going to keep him fit if nothing else. "It's me," he called softly when he finally reached the other's front door, and knocked twice before waiting for ten seconds as he was now used to doing. When Roulé didn't come to the door, he plucked out the key from his pocket, stuck it in the lock and turned-  
  
\- before pausing, feeling a resistance that _shouldn't_ have been there. He snatched at the doorknob and turned it, finding that it was already unlocked. Roulé always either left the door wide open as an invitation, or kept it closed and locked, but never closed and _unlocked_ \- never as if he, or someone else, had _left_ in a hurry...  
  
"... Roulé? It's me," Guy called again, his voice already shaking with discomfort. "... _allô?_ "  
  
There was no answer. There was not even the sound of movement. Guy took a deep breath and entered the apartment, letting the door swing back shut behind him; the lights in the kitchen were on, and a lamp was lit in the living room, but all the curtains had been drawn and all the rooms had their door shut. The afternoon sun outside penetrated the curtains not at all, leaving Guy in unnatural shadows. He opened his mouth to call out again, and then thought better of it; though the lack of noise was disturbing to him, his heart was doing an admirable job of covering that up. He reached along the walls until he found the light switch, instead, and turned the living room lights on full. Almost immediately he was glad that he had done so - on the wooden-panelled floor was a broken wine bottle, its midsection caved in as if having been crushed underfoot, and he would have walked right into it if he hadn't paused to get to the lights. As he'd developed the habit of taking his shoes off whilst in the apartment, it was just as well that he'd done so.  
  
_Oh._  
  
Swallowing back his fear, Guy lifted his head and began to survey the surroundings. Aside from the broken bottle, the couch cushions seemed out of line, a wineglass had toppled over on the glass table and had spilled its contents everywhere; the ashtray was overflowing as well (which was the first time Guy had even seen it used). He couldn't even begin to imagine what had happened, but his primal sense was tingling, telling him that _none of this meant anything good for Roulé._  
  
_Where are you?!_  
  
He turned sharply and headed towards the bathroom, slamming open the door. It was dark and unoccupied, and when he turned the light on he found it clean and dry. No one had been there for hours. Roulé also had a spare room just to the left of it, which yielded nothing when Guy looked into it. That left his bedroom; he had no idea what he was going to find there, and by this time he was more frightened than he could adequately express, but his need to see Roulé was more urgent. He stalked forwards, turned the doorknob - pushed the door open with his eyes closed, feeling around for the light switch on the side - and when he found it, he simultaneously clicked it on and opened his eyes, staring into the room.  
  
The curtains were closed. Not an inch of light shone through. Guy turning the light on had done nothing, the bulb was out; the room was dark, far more heavily shadowed than it usually was, and the boy had to squint to try to see inside. Slowly, though, _slowly_ his eyes adjusted to the dark, with the light pouring in from the outside helping a little. As he kept on looking the outline of each piece of furniture finally began to come into his view - alongside the figure of a very much alive, and extremely distressed, Roulé _tied up_ on the bed.  
  
"...!"  
  
Guy tried to take a step forwards, but his feet felt locked in place. Roulé wasn't even looking at him - it wasn't as if he could see anything, he had been blindfolded with a length of red cloth. His wrists had been tied together, twisted over his head and bound to the headboard with nylon rope, fastened so tightly that he seemed unable to move them in any way conceivable. He couldn't even have thumped them against the headboard to call for help, nor did he seem able to move a great deal of his upper body - but he had obviously tried, and was still trying, evidenced by how the skin of his wrists had been rubbed raw, visible even from beneath the restraints. He was facing the ceiling helplessly, his teeth clenched, his back arched and chest heaving in intense agony.  
  
"... Roulé..." Guy whispered. His voice came out choked and trembling, and he tried again, his terror finally tearing free from his throat. " _Roulé!_ "  
  
The older man managed to lift his head and look towards him weakly; he was panting with effort, straining against his bonds. He was clothed, but his tuxedo, bowtie and shirt from the night before were messily scattered about the room as if they'd been ripped off him at some point. "Oh, my _God!_ " the boy cried out, rushing into the room and bending over the other's form; his first instinct was to try to untie the knots around his wrists, but they were too tight to be unpicked with fingernails alone. Roulé also writhed when he touched his bonds, crying out silently in pain. "... scissors, Roulé, where are your scissors?! Do you have some in the kitchen?"  
  
The older man nodded frantically. Guy shot up from his position and ran without having figured out where exactly it could be; back home, his family always had the kitchen scissors hanging from a hook with all the other cooking implements. This was not Roulé's setup, and he ended up searching furiously through two drawers before he found it (it looked sharp, thankfully) and ran back into the bedroom with it. "Stay still, _please_ ," he whispered, now in a state of half hysteria as he positioned the scissors carefully so that he could snip off the section binding Roulé to the headboard. It worked, the rope being sliced through easily and at least liberating him from his position; Guy alternated between pleading for him to stay still and apologizing furiously as he slid the scissors in between the rope and Roulé's wrists, knowing how dreadful the sensation of blade against skin must feel. A small, square, torn-open foil wrapper lay next to Roulé's body and it came into view as the older man was slowly allowed to move - when Guy saw it he immediately swatted it off the bed with his hand, understanding what it was and feeling incredibly nauseous for it. It was just as well that Roulé was freed within a few minutes and proved to be still capable of sitting up by himself, shaking and holding his wrists but otherwise 'unhurt' in the loosest possible sense of the word.  
  
"Are you all right?" he was aware of how utterly pathetic and inadequate he sounded, but he had to know. Roulé made no movement either in the affirmative or the negative, weakly tugging the blindfold off himself and swaying weakly from having been deprived of food and drink for hours on end. Guy caught this and ran back to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water, having to support Roulé against himself because of how disoriented he was. "here... be careful..."  
  
Roulé's lips were paler than ever, and he was wide-eyed still from shock, but when the glass was placed against his mouth he responded and tilted his head back, accepting the drink. Halfway through he near snatched the glass from the boy in his thirst, and when he was done he panted heavily and pressed his forehead to the cold surface. "Since when have you been like this?" Guy asked as he took the glass from him, and the older man raised nine fingers. "... _yesterday_ , at nine?"  
  
A nod. It was a few minutes past five in the afternoon now. Roulé had been imprisoned for just short of a full day.  
Guy was not the most impassioned boy on earth, barely ever feeling the extremes of emotion, but right now he felt as if he were going through the full spectrum within seconds. Disbelief, pity, nausea and horror at what Roulé had suffered all mingled into one as he let this piece of information sink in - and once it had done so, oh, the _anger_ he felt, it was palpable! Fury as intense as this he would only feel at a few points in his entire life, and this was the first of all of them, stemming from what he perceived as a fundamental _violation_ , of _injustice_ beyond law or common-sense interpersonal relations. He was so angry that he barely even knew what to say, and Roulé had clearly seen it in his face. "Who-" the boy began, only to be interrupted by the older man throwing his arms around his waist and holding him in a surprisingly-strong grip, making him quite forget what had already taken too long for him to imagine.  
  
This was it. Such were the circumstances of their first embrace.  
Roulé's hand tightened on his waist, him shaking his head weakly against Guy's shoulder, and he was lost for words just like that. Quite _literally_ , too, as Guy found out; he raised a hand to his throat, staring at the older man, his lips moving but unable to make a sound. The strange paralysis that he'd felt when Roulé had visited him in Thomas's house had returned, except this time it was confined entirely to his vocal cords. No matter how much he tried to speak the simplest sentence, or even a meaningless syllable, his head went blank and he felt as if he were speaking through mud; his voice would _simply not come_. While he was struggling with that Roulé had stood up to go to the bathroom, gathering up the notepad and pen on the bedside table on his way, having to support himself against the wall a few times for balance. Only when he'd disappeared out of sight did the boy's voice return. "- _you done to me?!_ I - oh..."  
  
And _then_ he understood the message Roulé had been trying to send him. _Please stop talking. Please don't ask me, Guy-Manuel._  
_Please. Please just stop. Not right now._ He clenched his teeth and followed the older man to the bathroom, leaning against the doorway.  
  
"Aren't you going to-" Roulé shook his head dazedly, unbuttoning his shirt but not taking it off; after that he plugged the bath and began to run water into it. "why _do_ you wear clothes in the bath? In cold water, nonetheless!"  
  
[It doesn't start off as cold]  
  
Guy did a double take when he read that, but it seemed to be the case. Roulé had turned both taps on and the bath was filling with a good deal of hot water and steam, just as the boy would have expected. He didn't throw any products in this time; he raised his hand to his face to take off his glasses before remembering that he wasn't wearing any, at which point he just rested his forehead against the base of his palm as if he had a headache. This only lasted for a few seconds before he grabbed the notepad and pen, set them down on the edge of the bath - and climbed in himself, letting his shirt billow out in the bathwater filling up to his waist, becoming soaked through in a matter of seconds. The boy stood there and watched with dull fascination, unsure if he was to leave him be or not - the sight of water weighing down Roulé's clothes, darkening them and making their fabric cling tightly to his skin, was a mesmerizing one regardless of context.  
  
The older man leaned his head back, and sighed heavily, before beckoning the boy close with one hand. (He didn't look at him.) There was a low stool by the bathtub, so Guy obeyed and pulled it close towards him, sitting about a foot away from Roulé and in silence. Steam had condensed on the other's cheeks, lending an odd sheen to his already-pale skin; it was some minutes before Roulé 'spoke', first turning the taps off before reaching with his left hand to write without looking at the notepad.  
  
[So what did it feel like]  
  
"What did _what_ feel like?"  
  
[Being mute]  
  
Understanding dawned upon him as slow as the rising tide, and with it came more violent outrage. He looked at Roulé - who was giving him an utterly resigned smile - and felt the urge to _break something_ , all the pain and frustration that the older man had suffered being reflected straight back to him with such horrific clarity that he had no idea what to do with himself. And even now the boy was suffering it, the other's pleas for him to stop talking aside - what of it, he was utterly furious for Roulé's sake and his indignation was _beyond_ words, he couldn't express himself anyway! "... Like _hell_ ," he finally hissed through clenched teeth, and turned his head away fiercely to take several deep breaths before he could even bear the thought of facing Roulé again. "... like hell. It _hurt_! Is _that_ the answer you wanted?"  
  
The other's hand was poised as if to write, but he didn't do so. His fingers twitched once around the pen, just lightly, but he didn't do anything with it. Guy carried on looking off to the side stiffly, too reluctant to be the one to start the conversation back up again; they sat there until the steam had cleared away, and then Roulé seemed to sigh heavily again before finally writing down a couple of words for the boy to read.  
  
[I'm sorry]  
  
Guy merely glanced at it. "... What for."  
  
[I'm sorry that you had to see me like this I feel like I've let you down]  
  
This wasn't what the boy had wanted, no; he hadn't asked to see Roulé tied up and helpless. But he had wanted to see the other's remorse and sadness even _less_ , especially because none of this had been his fault. _Why are you saying sorry at all?_ he wanted to cry out, only just managing to refrain, but there was nothing - nothing _milder_ that he could replace that raw sentiment of anger with. Roulé, obviously wanting to soothe him even in his state, lifted his right hand and rested it atop Guy's - normally such close contact would have gotten him blushing or flattered, but this time the boy flinched, a shiver running down his arm at the touch. Something wasn't right.  
  
Guy numbly pulled his hand out from the man's grip, and dipped his hand in the bathwater, realization slowly sinking in.  
It was ice cold. And yet the man's breath was _warm_ , far more than it had been when Guy had first felt it against the junction of his neck and shoulder - warm enough to be actually _visible_ in the rapidly-chilling air. _It doesn't start off as cold_ , he'd said. That's why he looked so relaxed despite almost resting in ice; Roulé had _absorbed_ the heat and had internalized it within himself.  
  
This was too much to take in one go. "... Do you want me to leave you?" Guy asked faintly, trying to accept the blind facts as they were. Roulé shook his head. " _non?_ All right. What do you want me to do?"  
  
[Talk to me please ask me something just to keep my mind preoccupied]  
  
Despite the calm front he was putting on, he was still, evidently, very shaken over what had happened. That was far more in line with what Guy was used to expecting, so he stayed, anxious to be of comfort to the other. "... All right," he nodded, and fetched the towel from the side; Roulé rolled back his soaking wet sleeves and took the towel to dry his hands and forearms thoroughly before poising himself in front of the notepad. "if you're sure... I've wanted to ask this for a while, anyway."  
  
[Go right ahead]  
  
"Could you _speak_ before? At any point in your life?"  
  
Now that was an important question, and hopefully a simple one. Regardless of whether Roulé would end up writing an essay or two about it, at the heart of that answer lay only a _yes_ or _no_ , and that was what Guy was interested in most of all.  
  
[ _Oui_ ]  
  
_Ah, that's convenient._ "What happened to you, then?"  
  
[I never could speak much and lost my voice a very long time ago but I could speak and there are very rare days even now when I can attempt it but that's not often up to me my voice gets sent away far more than it wants to come back]  
  
"... _Sent away?_ How can you send away a _voice?_ "  
  
[You'd be surprised]  
  
Guy looked at the older man thoughtfully. He was wearing jeans and an open shirt with the collar turned up, barechested beneath it; that outfit lent him a look so boyish that if anyone else could see them now (Roulé lying in the bath with clothes on aside) they could have easily thought that the two were the same age. _Says a lot about the way I look_ , Guy thought to himself, and just managed to hold back a wry smile. Smiles could wait until he'd made one hundred percent sure that Roulé was okay. He was about to ask something again when he saw Roulé reaching for another sheet of paper, having thought of an addendum.  
  
[Anyway it doesn't matter much now for the significant foreseeable future my voice is dead and I'm all right with it most of the time as I said to you before it helps people open up to me better some like it that I don't have a voice at all probably satisfies a fetish or two I'm not quite sure]  
  
And this got him to frown again. "Don't say that, please," Guy said, and shuddered; the thought of Roulé as boyish was vaguely amusing, the thought of him boyish and _abused_ was most definitely not. "it just - seems so - _dangerous_ ," pause. Roulé tilted his head to the side, waiting for him to continue. "... what have you _done_ to warrant people treating you this way? Do you go and visit them in their sleep, too?" the older man shook his head, his face entirely serious. "I thought not. That's not a good reason to treat you so badly anyway. You only interact with them on their own terms?"  
  
[Of course and you never were obliged to stay either that was me being desperate  
you can still leave if you want I'm beginning to think this might not have been a good idea]  
  
"Nonsense," Guy said firmly. "... I'm in it now. I want to stay. This isn't about me. I'm... I just don't know who'd be so sick as to hurt you like this," he stopped there, unsure where else to take it - he'd intended it wholly as a rhetorical question, but it was answered nevertheless. Roulé was even completely matter-of-fact about it.  
  
[I don't know every now and then someone gets fed up with me being myself and tries to beat me up or erase my existence don't ask me why they do that I've never been conscious long enough to find out]  
  
The logical follow-up to that was to ask if he'd been conscious all the way through _this_ torment, but Guy was terrified of what Roulé might answer him with. The older man clearly had no desire to lie to him about anything. _Over twenty hours_. All that time bound and struggling, unable to eat or drink anything at all, perhaps drifting in and out of nightmares for minutes on end and being awakened only by the searing pain around his wrists - the one who'd done this to Roulé had done so with obviously malicious, if not downright _murderous_ intent. Whoever they were, they would have known that the man was incapable of screaming for help; they'd tied him up so tightly that he couldn't even slam any part of his body against the walls to signal that he was there. Had Guy not been there to free him - no, the thought was simply too awful for him to continue running with it. "... Whoever did this to you," Guy said, and hesitated. "... was it a man?" Roulé nodded. "you knew who they were before?" another nod. "are you going to - _do_ anything about them?"  
  
[ _Non_ ]  
  
Guy stared, thin-lipped and trembling. He simply couldn't understand this attitude. " _Mais pourquoi?_ " he asked right back, knowing how lost he sounded and not caring.  
  
[Everyone in the world just wants to be given a little care and to be close to someone who can hear them out that's all that's why I do this]  
  
"Roulé, this isn't about care, _they hurt you!_ "  
  
[Most people don't that is enough for me  
there is no one in the world not worth listening to Guy-Manuel that applies even if they make no sound]  
  
The boy didn't get a chance to answer. He wasn't even afforded a moment of surprise at _finally_ having been referred to by his name; the moment Roulé put the pen down he reached out and took Guy's hand again, his fingers closing firm around his palm. Then he leant back, took a deep breath and placed the other's fingers over his cold pale throat - just slightly, brushing gently over his adam's apple - and began to speak.  
  
In complete silence, anyway.  
He clearly remembered how to speak beyond just mouthing the words, down to every inhale, exhale and pause, even though he had lost the ability a long time ago. Beneath his fingers Guy could feel the faint movement of his larynx, how his jaw, lips and tongue moved; he would have been a fluent speaker back when he still could talk. Guy could even recognize it when the man pronounced his name - _Rou-lé_ , with a slightly guttural exhale at the first syllable. But that was all it was now, mere _movement_. He could feel the other's breathing against his skin, coming rhythmically and sometimes recognizing words or parts of words from his lips, but no sound (not even that of a sigh) escaped him. His condition was even worse than that of the more common types of mutism, where sufferers could make sounds that didn't involve their vocal cords - with him, it was genuinely as if someone had pressed a figurative mute button on a remote, and had left him like that ever since.  
  
"..."  
  
Roulé's voice was, indeed, well and truly dead.  
  
"..." The older man clutched at his throat, his serene mask cracking. Guy could _feel_ his agony in how his breathing was becoming rapid and shallow. "...!"  
  
It was too painful to watch. "Roulé, you don't need to do this, it's all right," Guy whispered, pulling his hand out of the other's grasp and resting it on his shoulder instead. "don't force yourself. Not... not for my sake, I'm nothing special."  
  
Out of everything they'd said so far, that last statement was what Roulé seemed to be objecting to the most of all. He shook his head fiercely, shrugging Guy's hand off his shoulder before he wrapped his arms around himself - and _shivered_. So much for the warmth that he'd absorbed; heat energy always moved towards the cold, his body was beginning to chill again from the water surrounding him. That's probably why he kept his clothes on, for as wet and heavy they were, trying to endure the cold entirely naked was even worse of an option. "You need to get out, you're going to freeze," he whispered again, before the whisper turned into a frustrated cry. "get out, indeed! _Get out,_ is what you need to do! _Jesus Christ!_ You've never wanted to _stop?_ Run away from all of this?"  
  
[I can't run away I live alone that's not a concept applicable to myself I mean think about how this looks to other people if I come back I've been traveling and if I don't come back I'm either no longer alive or I've moved residences nothing more it's a matter of possibility and in my situation that just isn't possible]  
  
He'd never thought of it in that way, but then had he ever been forced to do so before Roulé had entered his life?  
Guy regretted having said what he said the moment he'd uttered it. But before he could take it back, the older man had begun writing a reply far calmer than anything he really deserved, and even through his distress he knew that it would be far ruder to interrupt. Talking to Roulé really was proving to be a veritable minefield today, and he was proving to be _exceptionally_ bad at navigating it, too. Guy felt a powerful helplessness as he stared at the words forming on the page, suddenly aware of just completely out of touch he was with the realities that Roulé had to live through. By all rights he ought to be grateful that Roulé had even bothered to answer him. "... Regardless of whether it's possible or not, I want you safe first. But if you could be _guaranteed_ safe here, then... I guess... I'd much rather you didn't leave," he said. "selfish and strange, I know, but I'd really miss you."  
  
That seemed to have stirred something inside Roulé. With a start he jolted upright and stared at Guy for a while, a look of mixed surprise and disbelief on his face. He stared at Guy without answers for so long and so hard that the boy eventually had to excuse himself from the bathroom, going back to sit on the couch and throwing down his jacket before burying his head in his hands. _I can't do this_ , he thought with a tangible despair. _And he knows that I can't... if he didn't know before, he certainly does now. Oh my God, Roulé, what do you want from me? I'm - I'm not going to be able to help, I'm useless at this!_  
  
Somewhere far in the distance the bathroom lights clicked off. Guy felt a sense of _déjà vu_ in response - yes, it had to be that, the last time he'd heard that sound he hadn't been sitting down - and Roulé came to sit next to him, looking weary. His clothes (fully dry) brushed against Guy's own, but they carried no scent. The boy had imagined something like this before, and had found it a melancholy thought, but now that he was experiencing it he couldn't believe just how _sad_ it would actually prove to be. "Please take the day off," he whispered, unable to look at Roulé out of the fear that he might grow more sad or angry, neither of which the other needed right now. "or... or push some appointments back, or something... I... I can't and shouldn't tell you what to do with your life, but you've been hurt and I'd really rather... you... weren't put in a situation like this again."  
  
There was no reply. The notepad was only inches away, but Roulé didn't reach for it, lethargically gazing towards the wall instead. Guy got up and headed towards the bathroom, seeing a cabinet near the sink and mirror, and opened it: what he saw was a bottle of shampoo, a jar of pomade, nail scissors - and much to his relief, an actual first-aid kit. He took it out and unzipped it, thankful that it seemed to be quite new (he wouldn't have to worry about anything having expired), and surveyed the contents. It was well-stocked - and much to his dismay, clearly _often used_ \- but it had what he was looking for. He slipped out the anti-inflammatory cream from the bag and returned to the living room with it. "Let me," he mumbled, unscrewing the top and making a beckoning gesture; Roulé started and looked at him oddly for a long moment, but eventually sat up to gingerly offer him his hand. The marks were slightly more faded than before, but not by a great amount, and friction burn marred his delicate inner wrists. He thought back to how Roulé had appeared to erase the bruises on his face when he'd gone to lunch with him, and wasn't sure if he was offering any significant help to the older man; who was to say that he wouldn't recover quickly on his own when Guy left? But he rejected that thought, shaking his head, and silently squeezed out a drop of the ointment on his finger. Roulé's pain was real _now_ , he could assuage it _now_ , and that was all that mattered.  
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered as he took hold of Roulé's wrist, rubbing the cream in slowly. The moment the cold ointment touched his skin the older man flinched and bit his lip, shoulders tensing, but he didn't resist in the slightest. "I really am sorry, Roulé, I'm... I'm not going to hurt you. I'll drop this matter, but before I do, I need you to know that I _care_. I can't leave you like this."  
  
Roulé responded by offering out his other wrist, and Guy repeated his motions carefully, making sure that every inch of the damage had been covered thoroughly by the ointment. When he was done he stood back up again with it in hand, silently returning to the bathroom and returning the tube to the first-aid kit - he left the bag out by the sink just in case Roulé needed it again, but for now his work was done, and it was time for him to go. "I should leave you now," he continued as he returned to the living room, gathering up his jacket in his hands and only then meeting the older man's eyes. They were dark and non-indicative as always. "rest, Roulé... please eat something, too, you were... _there_... for a long time."  
  
The sun had long since set. Only dim artificial lighting could help them see each other, now. Roulé's eyelashes fluttered downwards in exhaustion; he nibbled at his lower lip delicately, still staring into Guy's eyes and looking like he was about to ask him to stay. But all he eventually gave was a couple of nods, first slow and ponderous before becoming more assertive. He was free to go.  
  
"Good night," Guy mumbled, and left the apartment in a hurry. As he left he didn't notice the older man staring after him, then glancing down at his wrists, touching over where Guy had touched ever so gently. No, Guy was too agitated for that. He simply couldn't sit there any longer and watch Roulé in pain, or worse, watch him attempting to _justify_ the harm that had been done to him. He was not as patient nor as saintly as Roulé apparently was, and if that was a mark against his character, so be it. If such unoffending, overly-forgiving blindness was what was required of a saint, they were no longer human, and he was quite content to stay one.  
  
On the way to Pigalle Station he bought a pomegranate off a fruit stall; he'd never had an opinion either way about pomegranates before, but Roulé's cake had changed all of that. He craved the fruit every couple of days now. During the past week he'd gotten his fix while he was with Roulé, the older man having taught him how to open the fruit properly - cut off the crown, score in quarters, submerge in water to pull the skin apart, gently rasp away the seeds - but considering what had happened, he'd missed his chance this time around. And for some tragic reason, his craving was so bad right now that he couldn't wait another day for it. How utterly _shameful_ , and yet painfully _natural_ this was, that he'd just seen a man suffer right in front of his eyes and yet he still felt _hunger_ overtake the horror of what he'd seen! Guy kept the fruit clutched in his hand all the way home, and when he finally entered the house with a shouted ' _je suis rentré!_ ' he made for the kitchen with it straight away. Dinner was in the oven with twenty minutes left to go, he'd arrived just in time. Draping his uniform jacket over one of the chairs to prevent staining, he got to work, and was soon watching dozens of pomegranate rubies breaking loose of the white flesh and dripping into a plastic bowl of water.  
  
He glanced at his watch. This was about the time that Roulé could be meeting a client for dinner. _Of course he wouldn't have listened to me,_ he thought dejectedly as he mindlessly scooped out a few pomegranate seeds, shook them free of water and put them in his mouth, biting into their tangy-sweet goodness. _It was a long shot anyway, I had no right to interfere with his job. I hope, though - I wish-_  
  
One of the seeds had burst and left a small stain on his shirt, near his heart. He looked down at it and thought of the painfully-red marks on Roulé's wrists, and felt even sicker than before. "Be _safe_ , Roulé," he whispered. But that sickening malaise didn't go away, for he knew in the back of his mind that this would continue to happen, and by the time he'd changed out of his uniform and sat down for dinner, he was so depressed that he ate only half of it and went straight to bed.  
  
\-----  
  
Guy did not sleep well that night. This was becoming quite the trend with him, lately. His sleep was so poor and plagued with awful images that Guy eventually began to contemplate staying home that day, having laid awake since five in the morning and dreading the day ahead. He would have preferred to check up on Roulé, but it wouldn't be polite for him to barge in whatever the older man might be doing, so that was out. He was the first one in his family to get up that morning, fixing himself a quick breakfast and filling the time in between with ironing the laundry and packing his lunch - normally he barely paid attention to doing the latter (which meant that his sandwiches never came out as dainty, nor as delicious, as Thomas's), but he was willing to do pretty much anything to divert his mind at that point. At least it wasn't long before Guy was granted some distraction in the form of Thomas; when they met in front of Porte Dauphine Station, all disturbing thoughts were temporarily wiped off his mind as he saw that the younger boy had bleached his hair completely blond.  
  
" _Bonjour!_ " Thomas had greeted him with a bright smile as he always did, and Guy hardly even heard it the first time around, instead staring at him in shock. Thomas had never talked about wanting a change like this before.  
  
"Your hair," Guy had finally said in lieu of a greeting, raising his hand to stroke between the other's curls. The bleach had given his hair a slightly stiff texture. "... what brought this on?"  
  
What looked like fear glanced past Thomas's eyes, but his voice remained light. "... _P-pourquoi?_ Don't you like it?"  
  
" _Au contraire._ I'm just surprised, I had no idea you wanted to bleach your hair! It came out really nice," and he meant it fullheartedly. The sun shone golden on Thomas's hair, lending him a look not unlike a halo. "don't be worried, I _like_ blond."  
  
"Oh, I know you do," Thomas had nodded meaningfully, but had said nothing more of it until they got to school. The younger boy was showered with attention the moment he walked through the gates, a self-satisfied smile having settled on his lips, and the sight of him so happy - by proxy - calmed Guy's heart for a moment or two. _Thank God for him._  
This feeling was not to last, sadly; Wednesdays began with German and he had to lose Thomas for a little while, which was still sufficiently long enough for him to become depressed again over the course of the lesson. It was sunny and raining at the same time outside, the weather warm and humid, the resulting stickiness not exactly doing wonders for his mood, either.  
  
"Group A, your speaking exam will take place next week, Wednesday, over the course of three hours. Group B, the Monday after that. The duration of the exam will be roughly fifteen minutes for each of you - five minutes of role-play, prompts chosen from any of ten random topics, followed by five minutes of your prepared speech, then a discussion."  
  
Speech. What was _speech?_  
  
He was in Group B. Guy bullet-pointed the important details down, but his pen ran out halfway through; he sighed heavily and closed his eyes, already quite fed up with the whole business. He tried only to write in black ink, and he knew he had no more pens of that kind left. He would have to make do with red instead, sacrificing the neat aesthetics of his notes for that day, unless he could borrow a pen off Thomas in the next lesson. (But at the same time he hated owing anyone anything.)  
  
The red ink smudged as he wrote, too. _Oh boy, isn't that great._ Looking at the smudge of red on his palm made him think of Roulé again and he wondered whether he'd done anything about those marks on his wrists by now. That outrage (now faded into undue resentment for Roulé's entire client base) prodded at his heart again and he suddenly felt very _unreal,_ unable to believe that he'd gone through those things less than a day ago and was now sitting here - learning German case endings and listening to people gossiping about whose boyfriend was whose mere seats away from him. If this wasn't the epitome of surrealism he didn't know what was. All this was conversation that he could have engaged in, even if without much interest, just yesterday.  
  
Now even innocuous questions such as 'how are you?' or 'what did you do last night?' resulted in nothing but a blank. He wasn't in the mood to make anything up, and he could imagine telling the truth even less.  
  
_Oh, nothing, I just rescued a man who'd been abused and tied to his bed and watched him take a bath for a while._  
_Why'd you ask?_  
  
No, that wouldn't do. It was better for him to steer away from casual talk altogether.  
  
With that in mind, as soon as lunchtime began and he'd sat down with his friends, he began to engage them in a conversation about their respective language classes instead. They all had speaking exams due soon - they were examined ahead of the standard written ones to allow for ease of preparation - so it wasn't exactly irrelevant conversation, either. All of them took English and French literature; they'd also all taken German save for Laurent (who'd done Spanish instead and found it terribly easy). Only René and Guy had kept German in their repertoire, however, so they were really the busiest when it came to preparing their speeches. " _René. René, viens ici, s'il-te plait_ ," he called, patting the seat next to him, and the other boy came over immediately. It was Thomas's turn to buy the snacks, so he was gone for the time being. "how do you explain this difference?"  
  
René looked, and frowned slightly. "Ooh, _je ne sais pas_. You and Thomas are better at English than I am, I can't help with that one. Laurent?"  
  
"He's already asked me, I can't explain it either," the other boy said. "I know what he translated is _right_ , but I don't know why. Is that for next week?" Guy nodded. Thomas came back with the wind in his hair and the plastic bag in hand; he said nothing about how they were all sat, not wanting to interrupt the conversation, but his face did fall slightly when he realized that the seat next to Guy had been taken. "it's not urgent, then, at least."  
  
"No, it's not. Don't worry about it, I'll figure it out later," Guy sighed, and closed his notes. "... but I tell you, I would have liked English so much better when it was being influenced by Scandinavian and German rather than dumb Romance languages."  
  
"Excuse you. Your _mother tongue_ is a 'dumb Romance language'."  
  
"Glad you share my point of view, Thomas," he smirked, and took his bottle of chocolate milk from him. "so cold, too! _Merci beaucoup_. Though you're right, it's not exactly dumb. Just of surprisingly little help for the languages I'm trying to do my best in, sometimes I think I'd have been better off being born German instead. German makes logical sense."  
  
Thomas sighed, not liking where this was going. This was the only area in which he felt that Guy didn't respect his opinions enough, and compared to how their relationship usually was, it was a jarring difference that made him too uncomfortable whenever the topic was breached. "Is _that_ the reason you keep going on about it? Can you not accept that I just don't agree with you about German?"  
  
" _Quoi?_ I wasn't implying anything. Though we could start talking about it, if you wanted."  
  
There was a tense silence. It only lasted for a couple of seconds, but such silences were rare between the four of them, and especially not between Guy and Thomas; Laurent seemed unsure, having been uninvolved with any of the conversation up to this point, and quickly glanced over at René. Luckily, the latter got the message almost instantly. "No doubt he wanted you to suffer along _with_ him, Thom," he cut in with a lighthearted chuckle, turning the two's attention towards him. When it came to languages he really was the one to talk to, he dabbled in four altogether and intended to exclusively focus on them later on. "what can you say. _Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_."  
  
"I resent that accusation. _Anfangen ist leicht, beharren ein Kunst, je le reconnais! Aber Thomas, ich hätte dir helfen können_."  
  
" _Eine. 'Eine Kunst', nicht 'ein',_ " René corrected quickly, earning himself a glare. " _was? Diese Dinge solltest du wissen, Guy-Manuel, ich versuche nur zu helfen_."  
  
Guy rolled his eyes. " _Danke schön_ ," he said, trying to sound as sarcastic as possible as he unscrewed the top of his chocolate milk - but having been granted an outlet for his German, his attitude had softened considerably already. Thomas could hear it in his voice, and even though he had been listening to this exchange with nothing but confusion in his eyes, he reached in automatically to help the other out. " _das ist so nett von dir._ "  
  
_"Libenter! Ah, mi dulcissime,_ " then much to the younger boy's unseen distress, René leaned over to kiss Guy on the cheek, albeit entirely in jest. " _relaxō, mihi crede_ \- and wow, that did _not_ come out the way I wanted," he exclaimed, giggling profusely as the older boy prodded him sharply on the side (though he too was laughing by now). "you think German's awful, never take a dead language. _Ow._ Stop nudging me, I need to get up! There you go. _Merci_. Thom, could I have the chips?"  
  
"Get them yourself," the younger boy said, more sharply than the norm, and kept silent for the remainder of the lunch period. He was pouting through the rest of the day as well, throwing Guy some incredibly-annoyed glances that went unnoticed. Not that a great deal would have changed if the older boy had done so, of course - Guy would probably just have asked him downright what the problem was, and Thomas would have staunchly refused to answer, turning away from him even more, which would have further led Guy to leave him be until he felt better again. That was how they'd dealt with being annoyed with each other before, and it had always worked back then.  
  
What else could one say about it? Neither of them knew any different.  
It wasn't as if Thomas himself could pinpoint what he was feeling, either. There was nothing more to be said.  
  
Thomas's mood hadn't unraveled much by the time school ended; a stiffer-than-usual ' _au revoir_ ' later and he'd left the older boy be. Guy's mind being so full of other concerns, however, it failed to make much of an impression on him; he merely shrugged and left for Montmartre, hoping that no one else had gotten their injurious hands on Roulé during the past few hours. He emerged to a far more serene Place Pigalle than he was used to seeing - the cafes and bars had barely anyone sitting outside, the traffic level was low, the sun was still bright and gleaming lazily overhead - and took his uniform jacket off as he walked, draping it neatly around his arm and brushing back his hair. Even Thomas was taking better care of his; maybe he ought to put in some effort, himself, and keep it well brushed at the very least.  
  
Roulé's door was open today. "It's me," he called from about ten steps away, and was met with Roulé exactly at the door. He looked calm and perfectly unshaken; his glasses were pushed up and resting atop his head, his sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were wet as if he'd been doing the washing up, and much to the other's relief, the red marks around them were gone. "How are your wr-" he started, but Roulé threw him a glance before he could finish, and Guy fell silent. They weren't to talk about what had happened any more. Guy understood that, had expected it in the corner of his mind, even; out of respect for Roulé's dignity, he nodded and let his gaze drift over to the other's hair instead. It was a dead ringer for Thomas's, almost down to the single, soft curl over his forehead; the older man looked at him questioningly in turn, doubtless wondering why he was staring. "... sorry, you just reminded me," Guy smiled as he hung up his uniform jacket by the door, though he kept the satchel. "my friend, Thomas... he's bleached-blond too. He did it just yesterday, we were talking about it."  
  
_Were you?_ seemed to be the sentiment behind Roulé's expression, but no comment (mouthed or written) was made as he gestured him inside. Guy could faintly smell something baking in the oven, evidently whatever refreshment Roulé wished to give him this afternoon wasn't quite done yet. He looked forward to it nevertheless, and took his seat by the couch, sighing in bliss as he finally sat down and relaxed. The older man remained in the kitchen, sitting in front of the oven with his knees drawn to his chest and staring at the timer intently as a child would. Watching him out of the corner of his eye reassured Guy that he was as okay as he could be; the boy was glad for that much. Respecting the silence, he pulled out his English homework and had been poring over it for around five minutes or so when he heard Roulé stand up and open the oven door. Its humming grew louder and Guy glanced towards the kitchen, only for a second or two, in time to see the other's hair buffeted slightly around his face from the wave of heat escaping the oven. A wonderful, sweet smell accompanied it, and the boy closed his eyes in bliss.  
  
_Mmm._  
  
Just the scent of it was making him smile (and blush in pleasure), but he didn't look up, preferring to keep the suspense. Sure enough, within seconds Roulé appeared in front of him with a tray with two plates (each with a pastry on top), two empty cups, a jug of milk, a few sugar cubes and a pot of coffee on it. He set the items down individually on the glass table, shaking his head when Guy asked him whether he wanted any help, and scribbled on the notepad nearby when he was done:  
  
[Let us eat jésuite]  
  
Guy chuckled. _Jésuites_ \- flaky puff-pastry crust in the shape of a triangle, filled with sweet amaretto-scented _frangipane_ with sliced almonds on top and the most delicate dusting of powdered sugar. Because the crust was still fresh out of the oven, the sugar over the top was melting slightly from the heat, but that was of little consequence. He hadn't had many of these before, but he'd certainly loved every one he'd ever eaten. "You're going to spoil me _awfully_ , Roulé," he said, but accepted his pastry with an eager thanks, waiting until the other had filled his cup with coffee. (Guy insisted on pouring his own, adding some milk but no sugar.) The older man had never actually joined in during those times before - he'd always been the one _giving_ Guy food, never eating any for himself, but today he seemed just as willing. "thank you. I like it that you're joining me this time, I always felt so bad not seeing you eat anything while I did."  
  
[I did as you asked I have nothing until 10pm and I already know the lady who's coming tonight she will be here for maybe an hour at the most there's no need for me to rush today]  
  
_... Oh!_  
  
So he _had_ done as Guy had asked! The last of his anxiety melted away and Guy visibly relaxed with a sigh, glad that he had been of some help after all. Roulé was being so _nice_ \- something about the way he was treating Guy had changed. He'd _alway_ s been cordial, but Roulé's attitude was of more personal affection this time, which was probably why he'd wanted to sit down with him instead of treating him only as a precious guest. It was gentle unspoken gratitude for what had happened the day before; Roulé had been touched, maybe even considered himself _indebted_ , and wasn't shy about showing it in the slightest.  
  
As if having read Guy's mind, Roulé gave him a smile much like the very first one he'd ever given him - the innocent, joyous one he'd shown in the Métro - before leaning back on his seat and taking the first bite out of his pastry while gazing towards the window. Powdered sugar clung to his cheek and he brushed it off, darting his surprisingly pink, cute tongue against his fingertip afterwards to lick it clean. How such a mature and dignified man managed to look _more_ kittenish than Thomas, he didn't know, but Guy liked it. As no conversation was being invited, he kept his notes open on his lap and carried on surveying it, maintaining the comfortable silence between them until they'd both finished the pastries. "Oh, bother," he finally sighed, pushing his plate away and sinking back on the couch to stare listlessly up at the ceiling. Roulé glanced over at him. "haha, don't mind me, Roulé! I'm... it was a long day, is all. And this thing isn't helping me in the slightest."  
  
_Pour l'école?_ the older man mouthed.  
  
"Mm. English. It's nothing serious, but it's just... not a very _sensible_ language. I really should have asked Thomas earlier, he's better than I am and it's not like any of my other friends had a clue, either..."  
  
[ _Would you like some help_ ]  
  
"I have a feeling he'd have kn-" Guy faltered, stared - then looked up with a wide smile on his face. " _Roulé, mon Dieu! Parles-tu anglais?_ "  
  
[ _You pick up a lot of things as you go about life what do you need answering_ ]  
  
Evidently his thought process was just as disorganized in a foreign language, but Guy was so delighted that he didn't notice until later on. "Why would ' _il n'y a pas d'eau pour cuisiner_ ' translate to _'there is no water to cook with_ '? I mean - where does the _'with_ ' come in?"  
  
Roulé nibbled at the end of his pen and considered for a while. Then he put the pen down, swirled his coffee, took a sip, and only then began his reply.  
  
[Consider a sentence like ' _il n'y a pas d'eau pour boire_ ' instead I suspect you may be confused because that would translate into ' _there is no water to drink_ ' in English  
the ' _with_ ' comes about because of what the verb itself is indicating it's to do with direct involvement or accompaniment  
  
you drink water on its own so you have ' _water to drink_ '  
you however don't cook water itself you cook something else and have it as an aid therefore you have ' _water to cook with_ '  
hope that made sense]  
  
It had. Oh, how it had. Guy read over the explanation, then back down at his notes, feeling as if something had finally clicked in his mind. "That made _much_ more sense than how they'd explained it in class. _Roulé, merci beaucoup!_ "  
  
[ _Gern geschehen_ ]  
  
He could have cried with joy. German, too.  
Something he'd lost with Thomas and had missed terribly, as earlier that afternoon had illustrated to him. Roulé offered him more coffee and Guy accepted an extra half-cup, having it black this time in the way the older man did. The sweetness of the jésuite had been just enough that he didn't warrant more of either milk or sugar with his coffee. "So," he said after folding up his notes and stashing back in his satchel. "your hair... I like your hair, blond suits you."  
  
[I don't think I'll keep it for very long but I'm glad it looks good to you though I always look good]  
  
He sighed, but playfully so. Roulé's vanity was of the kind that he wouldn't tire of. "What's the occasion, though? It seems like a fairly quick change from yesterday."  
  
The older man grinned as he heard the question, and immediately took up the pen. _Change._ Come to think of it, that was something he'd noticed now and then about Roulé. When he'd first met him in the Métro he'd seen a young man with slicked-back, dark curly hair, slim glasses and a clean-shaved face, and that was the image of him that'd stuck with the boy so far. But the more he thought back to the past times he'd seen Roulé, the more he grew to realize that the older man hadn't kept that form consistently: the rims of his glasses appeared to change day by day, from silver to black, from round-rimmed to rectangular, and that wasn't counting the times he wore none at all. When he'd had lunch with Guy that day, his hair had been slicked and _straight_. Sometimes he had a light beard, other times he didn't - the colour of his hair varied in very slight shades - his usual expression was a slightly dreamy, mature one but occasionally he looked almost as boyish as Guy - and of course, most obviously, he would go and change his clothes at seemingly random times (sometimes mid-conversation) before telling the boy that it was time to go. "Do you do it for your...?" Guy asked, not quite managing to get the word 'clients' out, but Roulé understood. His smile was broad as he nodded mid-writing. "sorry that I'm making you add onto that, but it really does seem like you do your best to make them happy. I mean, you went straight from dark brown to blond, isn't bleach awful for your hair? Do you find all that rewarding?"  
  
[I can change almost anything if it pleases people and yes of course as I said before that's a very large part of why I do what I do why do you think that's odd]  
  
"No way," the boy laughed. " _anything?_ Even the colour of your eyes?"  
  
[Do you doubt it]  
  
That made him stop laughing. _Do I doubt it?_ A part of him was tempted to brush Roulé off and insist that _of course you couldn't change eye colour for anything_ , but then he thought of everything _else_ Roulé had done so far - including breaking into Thomas's house _literally_ just to deliver a message - he suddenly wasn't sure at all. Changing eye colours or his physical appearance seemed entirely feasible compared to that, even if it was, realistically speaking, outlandish. "I don't think it's _odd_ ," he said, avoiding the question and taking a sip of coffee. "you're very dedicated, that's what I meant. That you do it for the happiness of others, I don't think we can say that of a lot of people in general."  
  
[Who do you want to see]  
  
Guy, who'd been gazing with mild interest at the piece of paper, looked up with a surprised look on his face. "... Roulé? What do you..." the older man smiled again, and rested his hand on the other's shoulder. "... you'd change for me? To look like _anybody?_ "  
  
[Close your eyes and wish for it]  
  
"Well, uh," he hesitated, but stopped when Roulé held a finger to his lips to silence him. Guy's eyes also fluttered shut in response. It was quite charming, actually, being offered something like this even if Roulé couldn't manage an exact change - a part of him still wondered if the older man could read his mind, if he could really change _right here and now_ with no aid - so he obediently searched within himself, wondering who he wanted to see. One face immediately came to mind and he mentally compared it against Roulé's, deciding that there was a pleasant similarity between both. If the older man really could change, that was - it couldn't hurt -  
  
_Thomas,_ he thought silently, adding the surname for good measure, ... _Thomas Bangalter._  
Then he opened his eyes and looked.  
  
Roulé had remained completely the same as before, bleached-blond hair, intense dark eyes and all. But even before Guy could afford to feel any disappointment, he noticed the other's face - he was scowling, delicately but at the same time looking _extremely_ annoyed. It was the most varied expression the older man had ever shown on his face, so far removed from his smiles or even his blank frowns in that it communicated an entirely genuine, powerful emotion. "... What? What have I done?"  
  
The older man turned his beautiful face away, then Guy understood the problem. He'd _heard_ Guy's wish, he was just refusing to carry it out - he was pouting, he was _jealous_. Maybe he'd talked a little too much about Thomas today, or he'd inadvertently insulted the other by asking him to mimic a fifteen-year old. "Oh, Roulé, I'm sorry," he couldn't help but chuckle, earning him yet another half-glare from Roulé. "that wasn't meant to be an insult, honest! He's... he's just my best friend, I've known him so long, he was the first image that came into my mind. Come on, you said you could change almost anything."  
  
_Is he all that you can talk about?_ seemed like the retort on the other's face. "But you're right, I've probably spent too much time talking about him. He, um, I don't think he can even see you. I believe that you can change anyway, I'll drop it - smile, Roulé, please?"  
  
It was a good thing that Roulé seemed disposed towards forgiveness. His brief ice-cold demeanour melted away, and he turned back towards Guy with a bemused look on his face; he didn't quite smile, but when Guy rested his hand on his, the corners of his mouth quirked upwards a little. Then he blinked as if having remembered something, and reached for the notepad again.  
  
[You can tell me more]  
  
"What about?"  
  
[About this Thomas I want to know more about him what he likes apart from you]  
  
"Oh, so I _haven't_ talked about him too much?"  
  
Roulé leaned forwards, waiting. Guy took that as an invitation to go ahead. "Umm, about Thomas... now that you're actually asking me about him I must admit I don't know what to say, it's hard to just single out anything particular about him. We've just known each other for so long, we're basically each other's lives... sorry, I'm kind of really bad at this," pause. He wanted to keep this as short as possible. Despite what Roulé was saying about not knowing a great deal about Thomas, Guy couldn't forget that he had _entered Thomas's house and had watched them sleeping,_ which was significantly more than what any of their friends knew. "so, Thomas... we've known each other since I was twelve... Italo disco and mixtapes and German lessons brought us together..."  
  
And so on. Only when he'd been asked to do this did he appreciate the importance and difficulties of narrating one's past in a cohesive manner; no wonder for Roulé, who had lived longer than he (and in more complicated ways), this had proved to be almost impossible. Nevertheless by the time Guy was done, he'd managed to tell the older man almost everything that he thought relevant, and in ways that made sense. "- and I'll have to stop there or I'll be talking all day long," he finished after ten or eleven minutes, taking a deep breath and loosening his tie. He wasn't someone who could talk for hours on end, and that was his limit. "he's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without him, honestly, Roulé. I feel like there's some people who almost become extensions of yourself and stay by your side all your life, and maybe it's silly that I'm saying this because we're not even out of school... but I want Thomas close by as long as possible. You know what I mean?"  
  
Roulé's eyes seemed to light up a little. But whatever it was, it was gone before Guy could notice, and all he saw in the end was the older man's decisive nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are over and I am back! This has been the longest chapter so far; it is about as long as the entirety of La Chanson d'un Ange. What can I say, explanations are always longer than the answers, and Wanderjahre partially aims to answer every question that the former fic posed!
> 
> No insult against BDSM or related practices is intended. I however believe very strongly in both the 'magical' and 'realist' aspects being portrayed as faithfully as possible and it is the sad truth that the oldest profession in the world is an _insanely dangerous_ one even now, when it ought not to be the case. Roulé's predicament was meant to be exactly as horrifying as I made it sound. _No one deserves to be hurt like this for what they do. No one._ I would like to make my position extremely clear on that. 
> 
> * 'Aufklärung' is a German word meaning 'enlightenment'. It is often used in the context of the Age of Enlightenment, originating from 17th-century Europe, where intellect and culture shifted in favour of reason instead of tradition.  
> * _Aimez-vous Brahms?_ is a real novel. I read it a couple of years ago; I recommend it highly.  
>  * That's right guys Roulé is not just a magical reality-warping gigolo, he's an **endothermic** magical reality-warping gigolo ahaha oh boy  
>  * I don't speak Latin, but was willing to dig into Marlowe's _Doctor Faustus_ /Cicero's _First Oration Against Catiline_ /The Cambridge Latin Course/the depths of the internet to derive René's dialogue. What can I say, if you don't speak the language you've only got to try harder. His utterances translate to 'misery loves company' / 'you're welcome! Ah, my darling' / 'cheer up, trust me' - the last one can also be read literally as 'relax, trust me', which sounds more suggestive than it was intended to be! Then again he's just an OC why do I even care  
> * Jésuites are a real pastry, and also a reference to one of the most hilarious passages from Voltaire's _Candide_.


	5. Geborgenheit

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 05) - _'Geborgenheit'_**

\------------------

It was around this time that Thomas Bangalter began to realize that something was _wrong_ in his world.  
For a start, he woke up in a cold sweat on that very Thursday night, nearly in tears and shivering as he awkwardly got out of bed and headed downstairs. Several streets away - close, but not close enough to easily walk to at this hour - Guy was watching the news with his parents, and was very annoyed indeed when the phone rang and he was sent to go and get it.  
  
_Who would call at this hour?_ he thought as he padded barefoot across the corridor and picked up the receiver. " _Allô, qui est à l'appareil?"_  
  
"Guy, it's me, I had a horrible nightmare," Thomas cried, and Guy glanced quickly at the clock. Nine thirty: nowhere near when Thomas usually went to bed. "I was so tired when I got back from school, I went straight upstairs and fell asleep and oh Guy, it was _absolutely dreadful...!"_  
  
_"Thomas! Thomas, calme-toi, s'il-te plaît."_  
  
"But I _can't,_ Guy, oh my God-"  
  
"Shh. I'm here now. You can talk to me, you know that - what happened?"  
  
A hefty silence followed this question; from it, and the way Thomas breathed (rapid and unsteady) on the other end, Guy knew that he likely remembered it all. Whatever had happened in it, it probably had also been so _awful_ that the younger boy wasn't willing to tell, finding the very act of recalling it painful. _The worst kind of nightmare,_ he noted to himself, _the kind that sticks in your mind and carries on haunting you more than it frightened you at the start..._  
  
"Someone..." the younger boy finally spoke up, hesitant and fearful. "someone... I... care for, very much... I saw that someone b-being _hurt_..."  
  
"... Go on."  
  
Thomas swallowed heavily. "There was darkness, so much of it, and they were... I... they weren't... _aware_ that they were being hurt, if that makes any sense... I tried to reach them but they c-couldn't _see me_ , I couldn't even take a single step towards them. I just - had to watch, and...!"  
  
"Calm yourself, Thom," Guy interjected again just as he detected the rising hysteria in the other boy's voice. "it's okay, it was just a dream. Who were they, what exactly was happening to them?"  
  
There was no response to this, and Thomas never answered either question downright. That was just a little _too_ much information to be divulging. Guy waited with him in silence, however, not wanting to come across as if he were urging him on. " _And_ I'm worried about Papa," Thomas suddenly blurted out instead of a proper reply. "I was going to ask him about... the weekend and next Tuesday, what we were all doing - he's away all the time in his studio nowadays, and he told me a couple of days ago that he'd been feeling kind of under the weather..."  
  
"Have you talked about this with him?"  
  
Thomas sniffled. " _Non_... don't want to worry him more, he's got enough to deal with as it is..."  
  
So it was up to him to comfort the other, then. Guy cradled the phone receiver between his cheek and shoulder briefly, both moving closer to the phone and thinking of what to say. He still had no idea what exactly this 'someone' was nor what had happened, but vaguely suspected that it might have been Thomas's father. "Don't be frightened," he said gently, keeping his tone as even as possible. "the dream was just a dream, whoever you saw in there was part of it too. But you're you, alive on this side, where everything is going as smoothly as it could be. There's nothing to worry about... try to forget about it, Thom. Nothing's going to harm you. Your dad's going to be okay."  
  
"You think I don't _know_ that?" Thomas retorted from the other end; he was making a valiant attempt to not stutter, and so far was succeeding, but he was audibly vexed in that he was talking faster than usual. "I know that, Guy, but - but people get confused, all the time... what am I - I supposed to do when... I felt that, in that dream, I was being _dragged_ into that world kicking and screaming and being swallowed up - how do you think I felt, being _forced_ to watch someone I care deeply about being hurt?"  
  
The older boy thought he could answer this easily. Whilst not quite as drastic as what Thomas had described, Guy too had felt something similar; at least, he merely thought that he had, and that led him to speak what he felt were genuine words of consolation. For if what he'd felt with Roulé during their earlier meetings couldn't be described as an _assimilation of his soul,_ then what else could he explain it as? He had not started off _willing_ to accept the older man into his life, nor be integrated into the latter's world. He had found it frightening at first, and he still was acutely aware of keeping that fine line of protection between his friends and Roulé, not wanting to give away too much to either party, and not wanting any of them in trouble. Roulé had grown on him, still, and having watched how hurt he had been only a couple of days ago - yes, he identified with Thomas entirely, he was sure. He understood that helplessness, that fear, or so he thought.  
  
"It happens," Guy said. "you get... dragged into something and... you lose track of where one thing ends and another begins. Dreams are weird things, Thom - they're so much like reality and yet not. You're you in your dreams, or so you think, but you aren't. Remember that philosophy lesson where we played _le pendu_ for half an hour? If you can still remember the bits _without_ the hangman, I know it was a long time ago, but it was about Descartes and his demon."  
  
"... What, how we can doubt anything and everything except our sense of self?"  
  
" _Exactement_. How we don't actually know about whether _anything_ is real or a dream. And I won't say that that's a perfectly ordinary thing or a remotely pleasant business because it's not, but it's okay to feel that way. To not know. To feel lost now and then. You woke up and you realized what was real and what wasn't, that's what matters. It happened to me, too. I'm here. You're not alone."  
  
But of course, because he had missed the point altogether, Thomas merely ended up more distressed than before. " _Non, non! Pas ça!_ That's not the same thing, not at all!"  
  
Guy held back a sigh and rested his forehead on his hand. He had made no noise, but his pause was just a little too long, and Thomas (being in possession of sharp hearing) had no problem catching it whatsoever. "You're fed up with me," he whispered. "I... I should leave you be-"  
  
"That's not it at all, Thom. I'm just at a loss for words and not sure what to do or say. I mean, I'm not there with you right now, and you won't tell me exactly what you saw in your nightmare aside from 'someone being hurt'. I'm not going to force you to tell me because whatever you saw, it really hurt you - I can hear it in your voice. Bottom line is I don't want you hurt and I care about you a lot - but seeing as you're there and I'm here, it's not coming through as intensely as I want it to."  
  
Thomas said nothing. There was nothing but silence between for a while, out there in the telephone void. Guy could faintly hear the television blaring in the living room and wished that he'd put socks on at some point, the wooden flooring was colder than expected. "I'm... I'm _frightened_ ," the younger boy spoke up at that point, making Guy forget all about said socks; much to his alarm, Thomas had begun to verge into sobs, and had given up hiding it altogether. "I'm frightened, Guy, I'm s-so scared of seeing what I saw again. That... that p-person being hurt, lost in the darkness. Me unable to reach them. I'm scared that it's going to... going to come back and I'm going to see something _worse_ happening and I won't be able to do anything about it."  
  
"... Thom? Thomas, are you... are you all right, please don't cry-"  
  
"Of - of _course_ I-I'm all right," the boy said indignantly on the other end. He sniffled hard, and his voice was muffled for a moment - Guy imagined that he'd turned away to wipe his eyes - before he was back on the line again. "so I-I'm crying. _All right._ What the h- _hell_. Any... anything _wrong_ with that?"  
  
"No, nothing at all... look, I'm just worried..."  
  
" _Oh, mon Dieu! Guillaume Emmanuel!_ Can't you just be _quiet?_ "  
  
Guy did as he was told. Thomas carried on crying until he couldn't cry any more, then abruptly hung up on him.  
The older boy stayed up an hour past his bedtime in case Thomas wanted to talk to him again, but no such call came, and by midnight he too was asleep with a heavy heart. The incident continued to weigh down heavily in his mind; as previously mentioned, whilst Guy had no talent in relieving emotional outbursts, he still sought to be as helpful as he could muster. As soon as he had woken up and breakfasted the next morning he called up Thomas, waiting anxiously for seven rings before the younger boy answered. _"Bonjour, Thomas, c'est moi."_  
  
_"Bonjour, Guy."_  
  
Pause. He sounded calmer than the night before. "I thought of you all night, I was worried," Guy said quietly. "no more nightmares, I hope."  
  
" _Non._ I slept fine after," Thomas responded. His voice was still odd, but no longer as frightened. "and... about last night... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just hung up on you like that. I was just so upset, that was all..."  
  
" _Ce n'est pas grave!_ I know you didn't mean it rudely, it really is okay. You can lean on me all you want, Thomas - do you honestly think that I'd blame you for getting upset? You were the one who had an awful time. Again, I'm sorry I wasn't physically there - but any time you feel like this again, call me up, I'll be here. I promise."  
  
There was a long, and intensely grateful, silence on the line. "Guy," when Thomas finally spoke, his voice was filled with emotion. "you have no idea how much that means to me... thank you, Guy, thank you so much. See you at the station, _oui?_ "  
  
And of course he had no idea, though Guy felt nothing but relief as he replied in the affirmative, hung up, and went upstairs to change.  
There was no way that Guy could have known just how _hard_ his kindness struck his best friend in the heart, deeper and deeper, until Thomas himself ceased to understand what he truly felt about their relationship.  
  
\-----  
  
A couple of hours later, Guy was at the school library, kneeling on the floor with a pile of books resting next to him. He didn't visit it often, but it wasn't out of a lack of respect for books; on the contrary, he tended to get overexcited and end up with too many of them to deal with in one sitting, so he only tended to go when he had plenty of free time and/or had a good reason to go. Right now he was alone (Thomas was in a chemistry class, a subject that they sadly were not placed in the same class for) and he'd found what he wanted - a copy of _La Chute_ by Camus, a German grammar book and _The Apology of Socrates_ \- and was now perusing the shelves, looking to see if they had anything else of interest. On a whim he went to see if they had anything on sign language, but found nothing as expected; shame, really, he'd been wondering if Roulé might like it if he began learning too. Pulling out his school diary, he leaned against a bookcase as he wrote down the books that he'd found, a reminder for himself to buy some more pens, and then flicked to the page for next week.  
  
Next Tuesday they were off school, it was the _Victoire 1945_ ; the streets would be awash with parades and celebrations that day, the boys could feel the buzz of excitement already in the air. Although neither his nor Thomas's family were into patriotic fervor, they would visit the war memorial in the sixteenth _arrondissement_ , and he and Thomas would drop in briefly at their school; it just happened to be the case that the only war memorial in the seventeenth _arrondissement_ was located there, and they'd always go to watch the poppy wreaths being laid upon the monument. But otherwise, they'd spend the holiday together as if it were just a day off. All of that would later be followed by a good meal and pink biscuits dipped in champagne, something that both boys looked forwards to.  
  
In the past years, Guy's primary concerns during this holiday had been Thomas, and the visits around the memorials.  
This year however he had Roulé to think of. He _still_ didn't know whether gigolos took rainy days off, but he did know that things ran a little differently on public holidays, there being far more people who weren't working. Maybe Roulé was included in that group, maybe he wasn't; either way, he wouldn't be able to see the man that day, and he only thought it right to inform the other in advance.  
  
He straightened up and brushed his hair behind his ear. Staying here was going to yield nothing, he ought to go. He left the library with only those three books in hand (though not disappointed) and headed back out of the building, his shoes clicking on the marble-paved path as he turned left. His classroom was on the other side of the school building; if he went now he'd still be early, and then he could probably sit down in the empty room and read his books while he waited. Before he'd even gotten a quarter of the way there, however, a noise caught his interest and he looked towards the courtyard, where the large marble war memorial sat.  
  
"...?"  
  
It was _them_ , the student couple that he sometimes thought of, who were notorious for missing lessons and walking around hand in hand through the school corridors. Guy only had the vaguest acquaintance with them - they were friends of Laurent's, which was why he was aware of them in the first place - but when he stopped to peer towards them, he saw that they were holding some kind of fundraiser. "For Tuesday?" he spoke out loud to himself, confirming what he already knew. Because the school housed the war memorial, it shared some obligation to keep it clean at all times and to contribute a poppy wreath for it at certain times of the year. The _Victoire 1945_ was certainly one such occasion, and students often held bake sales and such to help out the school.  
  
Evidently this couple was in charge of a flower stall, bringing forth a charming late-valentine kind of affair, and even Guy thought this worked fairly well. It was the height of spring, the day was beautiful and the flowers were in full bloom, and because it was Friday, the students were looking forward to a pleasantly long weekend before the parades began. A flower would be a good way of asking someone out, perhaps to watch the parades or to just enjoy the festive atmosphere.  
And that, in turn, made him think; he wasn't about to ask _anyone_ out, no, but he knew someone who might appreciate a rose.  
  
_... I wonder..._  
  
His interest had been well-piqued. " _Bonjour,_ " Guy called out, raising his hand in a wave as he walked over to the couple.  
  
" _Bonjour!_ " the couple smiled back; the boy (Guy believed his name to be 'Sebastian') had a moment of further recognition upon seeing his face. "oh, you're... _Guy-Manuel,_ is that right? Laurent's friend?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Say hello to him for me, could you? What do you need?"  
  
Guy gestured at the roses. "I will. I was just wondering... how much are the roses, there's someone I'd like to give one to?"  
  
The boy raised both eyebrows, though he immediately got to sorting through the bucket of roses. "What colour do you want? And wow, you're giving that to someone? I thought you were, like, _frigid_."  
  
"Pink, I-"  
  
_What?_  
  
All speech dissolved into white noise and for a moment his thoughts stood completely still. Guy stared at him incredulously, feeling as if a bucket of icewater had been dumped on his head. "... _Pardon?_ "  
  
The girl was beginning to look uneasy, and she hastily nudged her boyfriend's side with her elbow to try to get him to shut up; she didn't do it hard enough, however, and the message didn't go through. "Not that I think that's a good excuse to deny you flowers," Sebastian went on cluelessly, picking out an admittedly-lovely pink rose. "probably wasn't even true, shouldn't put any trust into school rumours, eh? That would be-"  
  
"Basti, be _quiet!_ "  
  
"... What? I never said it was a bad thing..."  
  
Oh, Sebastian had never _said_ that, certainly; yet the implications were inherent in the word, and the look on Guy's face was what it took for him to finally see how badly he'd messed up. He quickly fell silent, but the damage had been done.  
  
_"... Excuse-moi,"_ Guy eventually mumbled, turned around, and walked away. He only glanced back once; Sebastian was gazing elsewhere with a bewildered expression as if he couldn't believe what he had done, although the girl met Guy's eyes and frantically mouthed an _I'm so sorry_ before he lost sight of them altogether. But the odd hollow sensation still lingered deep inside him, his every thought and movement seeming to echo within it, swallowing up more of him with each passing second.  
  
_... Frigid...?_  
  
Cold, stiff, unable to love - all of those sinister implications lay locked in that one word, _frigid_ , ever so disturbing and unfamiliar. Romance or sex had never interested him; he couldn't force himself to think sexually of anybody, was unaroused by nudity of any gender, and until now he'd never imagined that this would be in any way _problematic_. But the proof was there, he'd heard it from the mouth of someone who he didn't even _know_ , that _that_ was what at least a few people thought he was like. In the back of his mind he rapidly questioned every relationship that he had with everyone he knew, from being with Thomas, to Laurent and René, to his other friends and people he'd encountered before; was that all he was to them, icy and indifferent? He sure as hell didn't feel as if he had been, but he had no access to anyone else's thoughts aside from his own, and that suddenly frightened him.  
  
_Is... is that what I am? What they think I'm like?_  
  
He was nearly the last one to arrive at class. He took his seat next to Thomas, barely hearing the other boy's questions as to where he'd been (the teacher began talking soon after this, so thankfully he was saved from having to give an answer), and sat through the entirety of the lesson in an uncomfortable daze. Thankfully, it was philosophy that afternoon, and even though the rest of his friends held the opinion that philosophy had no business being on the Friday curriculum, he'd liked it better that way. Their teacher usually wrote down a truly incredible amount as he talked, barely looking back at the students, and that meant that he could figuratively turn a switch off in his head and just copy everything on the board, leaving his thoughts free for better things.  
  
_René: chips p.b._  
_Thom: crème c._  
_Guy:_  
_Laurent:_  
  
The note came around exactly twenty-five minutes before the end of the lesson. _What the hell kind of flavour is 'p.b'?_ Guy wondered (almost out loud) as he wrote his usual down and passed the note on. He'd have to ask before he went down to the shop, at least he'd be granted some alone time to sort his thoughts out. Then he reminded himself that he probably ought to have known this; René's potato chip flavours changed frequently, but predictably, as he wasn't the one to try new ones with ease. Either René was acting out of character, or he was, and neither option pleased him.  
  
"Spinoza's remedy against the emotions," the teacher was reciting as he wrote, his chalk clicking rhythmically against the board. "' _Blessedness_ ,' he wrote, the word being synonymous here with an intellectual love of God, ' _is not the reward of virtue, but is virtue itself_ '. To this he added that we do not enjoy blessedness ' _because we restrain our lusts, but on the contrary, because we delight in it, therefore we are able to restrain them_ '..."  
  
Guy rolled his eyes, feeling more irritated than ever.  
Had Spinoza an answer for people who didn't _feel_ anything to restrain in the first place? Evidently not. He sighed and clenched his left hand into a fist under the table, frustrated beyond belief. Thomas gave him an odd glance and for one moment Guy thought he had been caught, but it turned out that the younger boy was looking just past him and towards a female classmate who was trying to desperately get their attention. "What?" Guy whispered to her. "what is it?"  
  
The girl looked to see that the teacher wasn't looking, thrust the note from before into his waiting hand, and went back to taking notes hurriedly. Guy blinked down at it. This too was odd, the note from Laurent back to René never went in this direction. He opened it back up and looked.  
  
~~_René: chips p.b._~~  
~~_Thom: crème c._~~  
~~_Guy : l.a.c._~~  
~~_Laurent:_~~  
  
_I just realized that I left my lunch at home, my apologies_  
_I'll buy again today, I'll go further down the road to that sandwich place or something_  
  
_It's entirely my treat, any of you want anything different? - Laurent_  
  
_René:_  
_Thom:_  
_Guy:_  
  
He sighed. So much for alone time.  
  
Then again, he also couldn't see how struggling with this on his own would give him the answers he wanted. He couldn't from the beginning, rather; it was just a way of avoiding the consequences. Whether he liked it or not, some people had the idea that he was frigid, and while he didn't know himself whether he was or not, he preferred to know the rationale behind this rumour. Guy still didn't _want_ to tell his friends about what had been said, but it sounded like plenty of people in the school knew about it already. They were likely to hear at some point or another, and if he couldn't puzzle this out on his own, he might as well present it to them himself.  
  
Oh, he wasn't _happy_ about it, but if that's what it entailed-  
  
_Guy: (non, merci)_  
  
\- then he'd face up to it.  
Guy was very unaware of how matter-of-fact and resolute he truly was, and that was a good thing. He wouldn't have counted as brave if he actively felt brave most of the time. Thomas was glancing over at his shoulder to see what he was writing, and when Guy pushed the note towards him, he quickly wrote down the same thing as the older boy and passed it on.  
  
It was not long before end of class. Laurent had been secretly packing up all of his notes and books as the hour drew to a close, and the moment the first peal of the bell rung he'd kicked back his chair and had nigh sprinted out of the door, much to the bemusement of the teacher (though he said nothing about it). Laurent was a fast runner, not just amongst them but out of most of their year, and they knew he would not take too long to get to the sandwich shop and back. "I saw that you didn't ask for anything else," René said as he approached. " _et pourquoi pas?_ I'm getting Laurent to get me some fries, I brought lunch but sometimes you want something different..."  
  
"I'll grant you that, but I like sticking to _crème-caramel_ and Guy likes his chocolate milk, I guess," Thomas still hadn't fully gotten over the cheek kiss René had given Guy, though his attitude had softened considerably. (Not that the older boy was aware of this dynamic.) "'different' is a word that only makes sense because there's a routine to stray from. Shall we go?"  
  
_"Oui."_  
  
Out of the classroom they went, first trying out the cafeteria to see if there was a place to sit. There were none today - not surprising, this was often the case as the cafeteria was entirely too small compared to the rest of the school buildings - so they moved back outside where they usually settled, looking for a table-and-bench combination. They found one a little further away than they would have liked, prompting some fears that Laurent might have trouble finding them, but it was there or nowhere else. "You're quiet," Thomas commented as they sat down, gazing worriedly at Guy, and only then did the older boy realized that he'd said not a single thing since the end of class. "something on your mind?"  
  
" _Non_ ," pause. "... well, um, if you insist on asking, _oui_. It's nothing serious, just... _confusing_ , that's the best word for it. Was I walking around looking perplexed again?"  
  
"Yes, quite frankly. Want to talk about it?"  
  
"You're all right with that, René? Thom?"  
  
Thomas nodded resolutely, and René did also, folding his hands on the table. "Mm-hmm. Spill."  
  
" _D'accord._ So I heard from someone this morning," Guy said, resting his chin on one hand. "that apparently people around the school... think I'm... _frigid_. Any of you heard that one before, about me? Today's the first time _I_ have."  
  
His voice remained casual, even with a touch of intellectual bemusement, because he hadn't thought that any of this warranted hysteria or panic from anyone's part. Surprise, maybe, but no more. " _Are_ you?" René asked just as nonchalantly, and when Guy tilted his head in a motion to indicate that he didn't know, he shrugged. "it doesn't really matter if you are or aren't, though, does it, what's _that_ got to do with you as a person?"  
  
"Nothing, I presume. It was just strange to hear it."  
  
"Well, there you go, then," René said, and had he been the only friend Guy had been with, that would have probably been the end of that discussion. Guy wouldn't have given the notion much thought after that, having been reassured that none of that mattered to his friends.  
  
Unfortunately, René was _not_ the only one here -  
  
"They said you were _what?!_ "  
  
\- and it turned out that it _did_ matter, to a significant extent, to Thomas. Guy was so shocked at the outrage in the other's voice that he quite forgot to reply, instead staring at him with confusion. " _Who_ said that?" Thomas demanded again. " _who_ called you frigid?"  
  
"Who's frigid?" another voice spoke up airily behind them, and the older boy stifled a groan. Laurent was back with a crepe, a styrofoam container full of fries (which he handed to René) and the usual plastic bag. "changed my mind on the way, that new crêperie next to the shop was too tempting. They even had what you wanted, René. What's going on?"  
  
"Nothing at all, forget it-" Guy started, wanting to wash his hands off the topic altogether. Thomas wasn't having it.  
  
" _No, I need to know!_ Guy, who said that, just tell me!"  
  
" _Pour l'amour de Dieu,_ Thomas, please keep it down! You want everyone else to hear?" the older boy sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands. There was a tense silence before he raised his head, resigned to his situation, and spoke. "you know that couple, two of your friends, Laurent... what was his name, Sebastian...?"  
  
_"Basti?"_  
  
"Yeah, him... his girlfriend had nothing to do with it, and he wasn't _trying_ to insult me. It sounded like he'd just heard it from somewhere else. They were by the memorial, I'm sure to raise money for the _Victoire_ next week, and I-"  
  
That was all Thomas needed. He pushed away his lunchbox and _crème-caramel_ and took off running, ignoring surprised exclamations and shouted inquiries as to where he thought he was going. He'd taken off his uniform jacket and had forgotten to put it aside, so the garment was knocked off the bench and tossed unceremoniously to the ground as he ran. " _Ah, merde!_ " Laurent muttered under his breath, picked up said jacket, and placed it back where it belonged. "if you'll excuse me-" he continued breathlessly, standing up himself and hurriedly fixing his shoelaces. "- I can't _believe_ \- I won't be long, you two-"  
  
"What?! Why are _you_ getting up?"  
  
"Damage control," Laurent hollered over his shoulder, already following after Thomas. "I'm the one who knows them best. I don't want him doing anything rash - keep my seat for me-"  
  
"But what about your crêpe, it's going to get cold!"  
  
"Oh it'll be _fi-i-i-ine_ -"  
  
Laurent was gone before Guy could get another word in, so ultimately, they had no choice other than to be fine with it. He sat back down and looked across the table at René, sharing stunned looks with him, still unable to believe what had happened. "... I'm not the only one thinking that they're more offended about this than I am, right?"  
  
_"Non."_  
  
"So... do you know what might have...?"  
  
"I have no idea, Guy," René said helplessly, looked through the plastic bag, and looked up again. "... chocolate milk?"  
  
_"... S'il-te plaît."_  
  
The bottle was handed over, and immediately drunk out of without much enthusiasm. Guy didn't know whether it was from the downcast mood or what, but lately he'd been thinking that chocolate milk was becoming too sweet and cloying for his tastes; he wanted to switch to coffee-flavoured, or actual coffee with some milk stirred into it. When it was his turn next to buy the snacks, he'd probably try that. He didn't even have all that long to wait after all. "... I heard you had your Latin speaking exam."  
  
_"Oui."_  
  
"How'd that go?"  
  
Latin oral exams were not quite like the ones for German or English. They were unconcerned with daily speech or roleplaying, as the language was by all intents and purposes a little too dead to serve that kind of purpose now; instead, they focused solely on a translation-and-commentary based system, where students were given a piece of text and half an hour to work with it before being examined. " _Awfully_ ," was René's bitter answer. "trust us to give us the part where the grammar's being stretched to the limit! It's intended to show how sad and broken Dido is at that point but I tell you, the effect does _not_ come through when you're having to translate it painfully, bit by bit, while someone's staring you down and asking questions. It was bad. I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"... Sounds it. But you did good, I'm sure - I mean, how many people are there in Latin class anyway, ten?"  
  
"Sixteen. That's still a lot of people to fall behind," René sighed and plucked out a couple of fries, holding them up listlessly. "... you know, speaking of sad things... I love a decent helping of _pommes frites_ just like anybody else on the planet, but... there are very few things sadder than eating them _cold_ , don't you think? What's normally crisp and hot becomes cold and starchy and all the salt falls off and you basically end up eating greasy segments of potato. All from the absence of heat. Maybe that could be a metaphor for something, but I don't know what."  
  
Guy concurred on all points, including the one about the metaphor. The rest of their lunchtime passed by awkwardly and in hushed tones only - nearly twenty-five minutes had passed before Laurent and Thomas both returned, and the latter almost immediately snatched up his jacket and satchel without a word, turning on his heels and dashing off to the library. "Guy, let him be," Laurent said quietly when the other frowned and got up to follow. "he was... upset. You'll see him next lesson, just give him time."  
  
"What happened? Did you find them at all?"  
  
"Yes, and more," the other nodded, and picked up his crêpe. It was very cold by now, but he seemed too distraught to care, and bit into it nonetheless, chewing slowly to gather his thoughts together before he said anything else. "... it's a really good thing you weren't there, if I'm honest, I thought Thom was going to _punch_ Basti in the face or something when we found them. Not like he'd have gotten very far. Anyway they weren't even close to the origin of the rumour, you were right, though they did know where it began," Guy nodded slowly, saying nothing but urging Laurent to continue. "would you believe me if I said that... the whole thing... ridiculous, I know - it started off from something Sabine said weeks ago?"  
  
This information meant nothing to the long-haired boy initially. It was René who had to pinpoint the way for him in the end. "What, the girl who gave Thom the love letter?"  
  
Then things clicked into place, in regard to who Sabine even was - but without bringing forth any other significant revelation. "I... _uh_...?" Guy stammered. "what did she say?"  
  
"Don't quote me on this, but from what we heard, she was briefly mad at Thomas for not answering her letter... and during that time when she was mad, she threw around a couple of insults about him and people _around_ him, and you were caught in the crossfire. Seriously, we tracked her down and she barely even remembered saying any of it, she didn't expect it to be taken that far either. She didn't mean it seriously, but a few others caught on and..."  
  
Laurent trailed off there, but Guy could fill in the gaps. A rumour passed on without seriousness from person to person, blown out of proportion - a rather anticlimactic, but understandable resolution. However that didn't change that he'd still been left to suffer the consequences, and not only that, he had been left with no one in particular to blame. He wouldn't fault someone seriously for having said something without care, if no true malice had been intended in the first place - merely frustration. Sentiment was undeniable. Nevertheless he was still puzzled about the specifics: "But what have _I_ got to do with whatever Sabine felt about _Thomas_?" Guy asked, genuinely baffled. "I've never even talked to her, why was she thinking of _me_ in the first place?"  
  
René leaned in too, looking curious. Laurent opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking down at the surface of the table. The silence that descended between them was sudden and highly uncomfortable, and Guy knew in that instant that nothing the other boy was about to tell him was going to be informative. At the best, he too knew nothing; at the worst, he had no intention of telling the truth, and perhaps hadn't been even with his previous account of what had happened.  
  
It wouldn't be fair to press Laurent for any kind of information, so he would refrain from that  - but he remained acutely aware of that disclaimer.  
"Damn it if I know, Guy," was all that the other finally said. "damn it if I know."  
  
\-----  
  
The pink rose probably hadn't been a good idea, anyway. Guy did have occasion to glance out of the window during one of his classes and at the memorial again, and did contemplate going back, but by then he'd also had time to remember that pink roses had a less than innocent meaning in relation to Roulé. Guy admired him, but he was not an _admirer_ \- that would imply that he made use of Roulé's services, and he didn't think the older man needed more reminders of that. What Roulé needed was something much more personal and sincere.  
  
Unfortunately that kind of something was far harder to think of than a rose, and thus he still had nothing by the time school ended. The younger boy stayed very close to him yet mostly silent all throughout the rest of the day, still visibly upset by what had happened. Guy was half tempted to tell him that there was no sense in being resentful for so long; _had_ he brought it up early on, he might have gotten a very childlike but enlightening outburst from Thomas about how 'nobody should be treating him in that way', but he didn't until much later on, not wanting to make everything worse. They stayed behind as the last of their classmates filed out, Guy sitting perched on the desk whilst Thomas remained in his seat.  
  
Neither of them spoke for a while.  
  
Guy found after-school classrooms as a whole rather disorienting. He could often still hear the students outside, so the corridors were still full of noise and laughter; the rooms themselves were littered with poorly-placed chairs, pencil shavings and always a sheet of crumpled notepaper or two; the smell of chalk dust and someone's too-heavy cologne was in the air. Something about how everything was still awash with life and yet _devoid_ of it, he supposed, was what disturbed him. "... Are you all right?" he broke the silence first, not wanting to dwell on it too much.  
  
Thomas nodded - then shook his head - then made a face that indicated that he really didn't know, himself. "... _Mmh_."  
  
"Are you worried about me?"  
  
This got him a definite nod. "Well, don't be. It's a rumour that literally no one meant, Thom, it'll die down. I'm okay with it."  
  
Thomas stared at him, incredulous. "How _could_ you be?! It's just... _wrong_ ," the younger boy shook his head fiercely, his arms tightening around his satchel. "it's... a-all of this is... _everything_ about this is wrong, Guy!"  
  
The older boy sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Just what he hadn't wanted to hear from Thomas out of all people. But at the same time he saw no point in drawing out the discussion even further, or staying here; he slid off the desk and dusted his knees before glancing at Thomas again. "Come on," he said, offering him his hand. "... let's go."  
  
Thomas blinked down at his hand. "... Go w-where?" then his eyes seemed to light up slightly. "are you going straight home?"  
  
" _Non_ ," and the light was gone again. "but I can walk you to the station. I _want_ to. Come on, Thom, walk with me."  
  
He was willing to accept this as a substitute, at least. Thomas was fully packed and ready to go within seconds, hurrying after and staying close to Guy as they left the classroom together and went down the stairs. When they reached the mass of students filing out by the gate he reached out and took the older boy's sleeve, not wanting to lose him in the crowd, and Guy let him do so. Although it had been less than two weeks from when he'd last walked with Thomas to Villiers Station, the experience already felt foreign to him - almost as intense as a _jamais vu_ \- and even though it was the route he always took from school, as he retraced it this time everything felt new and strange.  
  
But then, in all fairness, _nothing_ felt right to Guy after having taken such a major blow to his worldview. The soft vanilla scent of Thomas's hair gel tickled his nose, but it didn't translate to anything further in his mind - he felt very _cold_ , as blank as a slab of marble, so empty that he didn't even know whether to feel disturbed about that or not. As they walked (mostly in silence) he contemplated what his friend could possibly have meant by 'this being wrong'.  
  
One, he could mean purely that Guy had been wronged for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and that he should never have been put into this situation. Guy could agree with this.  
Two, he could also mean that the _act_ of spreading rumours in themselves was wrong. This was also agreeable.  
Three, and this was the point where the older boy's understanding began to falter, Thomas could have been lashing out _against_ him - perhaps because he wasn't acting extremely concerned about the whole thing, or at least, as much as the younger boy had expected. Thomas clearly believed that he had all the right in the world to show offense, and was likely frustrated for his sake, doubtless thinking that Guy was holding back when he didn't need to.  
  
Guy could have accepted all of the above, and with some stretch of the imagination, all at the same time.  
  
_But... but what if..._  
  
However, if Thomas was vehemently _denying_ that he was frigid, implying in turn that there was something _wrong_ about being that way - then he was no better off than before. He couldn't leave out the possibility of himself being asexual, and if Thomas wasn't all right with that, he was part of the problem as well. And that was disturbing to Guy, that his friend might turn against him for something as abstract as this, which didn't harm anyone else - what did it matter to _anybody_ whom he loved or didn't love? - and might ultimately be of no consequence at all. The age-old wisdom of 'never letting other people's opinions affecting you' did come to Guy's mind, but it wasn't practical advice. None of this changed the fact that he was still _Thomas_ , that he was still Guy's _best friend,_ and that his opinions held major priority in his world.  
  
He supposed that he was far less worried about the actual matter of his sexuality and more towards what other people thought of him, and that made him frustrated and disappointed.  
Guy had never thought that he _needed_ the approval of others in order to be his own person. He was eager to amend this to his friend at the very least, despite knowing how contradictory that was - by all rights it was _Thomas_ who had to accept _him_ , not he who had to change for the other's sake, but that was far easier said than done.  
  
"Thomas," Guy said quietly. He didn't look at the younger boy but knew that he was listening. "there is... there is _nothing_ wrong with me. I want you to know that."  
  
"... _Quoi?_ I never said-"  
  
"There is nothing wrong with me," Guy repeated. "I don't know if I'm genuinely frigid, but regardless of if I am or not, that... that doesn't make me somehow against nature or... wrong, somehow. I want you to know that," then before Thomas could interject, he took a quick breath and went on speaking, now almost half-reciting directly from his confused mind. "but I know you care for me, and I appreciate you defending me, I really do... as long as you, uh... didn't _really_ punch Basti or something..."  
  
The station was already in view. They both stopped at the same time, not wanting to leave the conversation unfinished. "I _wanted_ to," Thomas answered just as quietly; Guy looked at him and saw that he'd lowered his head in what might have been either shame or frustration. "it wasn't his fault that the rumour began, I know - but he's the one who made you uncomfortable and..."  
  
"Did he apologize?"  
  
_"Oui."_  
  
"Then that's all I need. There, you have it from me," he reached out and rested both hands on the younger boy's shoulders, making him look up again. "thank you, Thom. I mean that. It'd have been really miserable to have no one stick up for me."  
  
He broke off there and coughed a little awkwardly, not sure what else to say. It was still enough for Thomas, who looked at him for one long moment - before throwing his arms around the older boy, burying his face insistently on his shoulder. He was silent but that gesture said it all, speaking of his own gratitude and relief, alongside the remnants of an apology for not having done more. Guy returned the embrace and they stood there for a while, amongst the people passing by and the noise of rush-time traffic, one more reassured in the shared warmth than the other.  
  
"... What are you doing tomorrow, Guy?"  
  
"Going out at ten in the morning, but I'll be back by two and nothing else all day."  
  
Thomas nodded, face still buried in the crook of his neck. "... Can I come over at three, then? I want to spend some time with you... you've been busy lately."  
  
It was true. He _had_ been busy.  
Guy nodded, eager to make up for any neglect that he might shown Thomas - he had many things to deal with in his life at the moment, but not much was ever going to be more important than his best friend. "Of course you can, I'll call you in the evening just to make sure. _À demain,_ Thomas, and don't worry about me. I'm really okay."  
  
"I still will," was the younger boy's concerned reply, soft and plaintive, but he was consoled by what the older boy had told him. So he said no more and returned the farewell, going one step further by leaning in and 'kissing' him on both cheeks - like most people they engaged in a decent ' _faire la bise_ ' during important occasions, or whenever their families met up by invitation, or when they hadn't seen each other in a while. They were usually simple affairs involving merely a couple of cheek-presses and kissing sounds; Thomas seemed to want more than that today, however, for Guy could have sworn that their second ' _bise_ ' had been performed with the younger boy's lips actually brushing against his cheek. Before he could figure it out, though, Thomas had left, and Guy stood there to listen to the echo of his footsteps thudding on the stairs until they faded into nothing.  
  
\-----  
  
The trains on Line 2 of the Paris Metro ran on an extremely-frequent basis, never taking more than five minutes between trains, but Guy knew better than to act hastily. He gave it a full quarter of an hour before he too went down the steps and headed towards the platform, nodding in satisfaction as he saw that Thomas was nowhere in sight. He was just in time, too; the train came less than thirty seconds after he had reached the platform, and he boarded it straight away, ready to be taken to his daily refuge in Roulé's apartment.  
  
Yes, that was what it was now, a refuge. It came with the risk of seeing Roulé suffering, so it was by no means a perfect one, but Guy could no longer deny that being with the older man was calming. In a way, he understood now what he had meant by '[his clients] opening up to him better' as a result of his muteness; Roulé made for a fantastic listener, and between all of those notes and confessions, to an extent Guy almost felt their communication superior to any other. Speech was easily made and easily lost in air, written words were less so.  
  
The train was dry and overly warm. The scent of someone's strawberry-scented bubblegum wafted in the air. Feeling sweat prickle at the back of his neck, Guy took off his uniform jacket and draped it over his satchel, brushing his hair back again before grasping the overhead handle to steady himself. Doing that brought back the memories of his first encounter with Roulé: had he perceived nothing sexual in the other's touches back then because Roulé hadn't intended any - or because he himself was indeed 'frigid'? This thought was dismissed quickly from his mind, for Guy couldn't believe that Roulé thought of him in that way - he could have subdued the boy at _any point_ in the past few weeks had he wanted to do so, but he clearly had no such desire, if he was being so courteous. But a disturbing thought was still a disturbing one, and by the time he'd disembarked at Place Pigalle, he was left no less troubled than before.  
  
He passed a couple of fruit and flower stalls on the way. The fruit stalls he kept in mind for his daily fix of pomegranates, but the flower stalls he passed by with discomfort. Loosening his tie, he turned the usual corners and walked up to the apartment building; he took the time to lean out from the passageway, peering down towards the ground and inhaling the fresh air from where he was, before he headed to Roulé's door. He could do with a clear mind if he was going to face the older man.  
  
_"C'est moi,"_ he called. The door was slightly open, and no one came to it. Shrugging, he tugged the door open, looked up - stopped - and _stared._  
  
In the past weeks that he'd known Roulé, he'd never seen the man asleep, or _not_ up and about at this hour of the day. His clients visited him at random hours, though thankfully they'd never been interrupted by one so far, and over time Guy had just assumed that the man was indeed 'available for rent, twenty-four hours a day' as he had claimed. But Guy could never adequately estimate just how _full_ of surprises Roulé could be. The clock was ticking not-long past three in the afternoon; the door to his bedroom was wide open, and so were all the windows in the apartment, the net curtains glittering in the light. The entire apartment smelled of honey and late-spring blossoms, as opposed to almost nothing as it usually did. He'd never seen the place so brightly lit before, and gazed around him in wonder, his own hair fluttering in the breeze.  
  
"... Roulé?"  
  
He hadn't needed to call. A pale hand rose from the bed and waved gently over at him from the bedroom, and Guy entered quickly, pulling off his shoes. The room was unchanged save for the other's clothes being strewn all over the floor and Roulé himself bundled beneath the blankets, gazing at him. Guy would have greeted him, but one look at him left him quite speechless (and wish that he'd saved his words for this instead). There was no sight of the impeccable, well-dressed man that Roulé usually was - his glasses lay askew on the bedside table (next to a mysterious case of red wine), his hair was mussed against the pillows, sweet lethargy rested over his features. He moved a little, the covers falling down his shoulders, and Guy inferred that he was entirely nude beneath the bedsheets; but he couldn't look away, transfixed by the sight in front of him.  
  
Today, Roulé was unrestrained, all-natural and entirely authentic.  
His gaze was half-lidded, his face blushing lightly and softened with erotic bliss. His lips were swollen slightly with kisses - at least the boy couldn't think of any other reason - and there was something coy in the way he moved beneath the covers, slow, hesitant and purposeful as if to simultaneously show and hide. "You look... _different_ ," Guy finally said out loud, still staring. "what happened while I was away?"  
  
Roulé threw a glance at the bedside table. Guy fetched him the notepad and pen, and the older man chuckled before falling back on the bed, facing the ceiling as he held up the notepad above his face and wrote in a handwriting far steadier than his usual hand:  
  
[A good friend came to visit me last night]  
  
_A lover?_ Guy couldn't help but think immediately, and almost as quickly he deemed that this must be the case. But Roulé had never looked this way before or after being with any client before. "A really special person, I take it?" Roulé nodded, smiling softly and with just a little sadness, before he took up the pen again.  
  
[He only just left  
Maybe about half an hour before you came  
Those wines are all from him because he knows I love them so  
  
I need him  
I want him so much  
I miss him I wish he'd stay with me  
I love him more than anyone in my life]  
  
This was unexpected. Roulé's thoughts had never been so _organized_ before, and Guy looked back and forth at the note then at Roulé with fascination. On the surface level he could guess what had happened, but he was more concerned with what it had _meant_ for Roulé, as it resembled nothing - not even his broad kindness - that the older man had ever expressed before. And those words! Roulé was always clear about what he wanted and didn't want, but his directness hadn't been a necessary indicator of passion until now.  
  
Who was this 'he' that Roulé loved?  
Guy was at once happy that Roulé could love, and mildly at a loss as to what to say. Didn't this man have anything to say about Roulé's occupation? "Did you have a nice time?" he asked quietly, not feeling that he ought to pry into the latter. Not yet, perhaps not ever.  
  
[ _Oui_ we had a wonderful time I can still feel him]  
  
Guy understood. He had honestly expected to start blushing at any moment, and was relieved when he didn't; he also remained unsurprised, instead rather moved by the idea of Roulé having _made love_ as opposed to having worked. If there was anyone who needed true affection and care in this world, it was him, which made these circumstances sadder and harder to understand. "Won't he _stay_ with you?" the boy asked, as softly as he could manage. Roulé shook his head. "so... when do you get to see him? How often?"  
  
[Once every decade or so]  
  
An old question lingered near his lips, reading that note. _How old are you really, Roulé?_  
He had asked before - in fact after their contract of sorts made over cake, he'd thought it only customary to get to know the older man properly starting from that point, and that was the first thing he'd inquired of him. "How old are you really, Roulé? Most definitely over twenty, right?"  
  
[Older]  
  
"Thirty?"  
  
Roulé had tapped the note again, indicating the same answer. Guy had gone all the way up to seventy, feeling increasingly as if he were being made fun of as the older man insisted that he was older than even that. He'd had no idea why a man who wanted his help so badly had to _overcomplicate_ such a simple piece of information.  
  
_Fine, two can play at that game_ , he'd finally thought out of sheer exasperation. " _Oh, je ne sais pas!_ " he'd exclaimed, getting only a smirk from the man in response. "you're exactly five hundred and seventy-three years, eleven months, thirteen days and five hours old for all I'd get out of _you_ , Roulé!"  
  
[Of course I'm not quite that old you're just being silly now what do you take me for also where's the guess for your minutes]  
  
_Ugh._  
  
To an extent, Guy still thought the whole thing was absurd. But then, following strictly from that logic, a _lot_ of things about Roulé ought to have been beyond the impossible, things that Guy had still seen and experienced with his own eyes. Unless he was willing to acknowledge that either he had no business categorizing what did and didn't make sense in the wide perspective of the world, or that he too was part of the 'absurd' and therefore Roulé could _actually_ be centuries-old, he could not hope to progress with him.  
  
_Decades._ Entirely feasible. Roulé was still gazing in his direction, but not directly at him, lost again in memories. "That's a long time," Guy said quietly, and the man blinked and nodded. "... in my point of view, anyway... but then I haven't been alive for twice that amount, what do I know? But really... do you not see him at _all_ during the remaining time? Or-" he almost asked whether they ever _talked_ , but stopped at the right time. "- get some kind of communication through?"  
  
[ _Non_ he's otherworldly even to me]  
  
Otherworldly, indeed! _Otherworldly,_ even compared to _Roulé!_ Guy had to hold back a wry smile at the thought. (He thought it best to refrain, for Roulé having said goodbye to his lover for another decade was still sad.) He was just about to say something else when the older man sat up, clearly having thought that he should freshen up a little now that he had a guest; what surprised him was not that but how Roulé almost immediately winced and curled slightly, his hands bunching the covers close to his lap. His eyes were half-lidded, and after a second or two the softest _blush_ alighted his cheeks, his lips parting in a silent _oh_ as he waited for the feeling to pass. He was obviously aching from the night before, he had been _very_ thoroughly 'loved'. Yet as oxymoronic as it sounded, Roulé seemed to find the soreness enjoyable, and from the way he arched lightly into it, was _embracing_ it to the fullest. Masochism wasn't the term for it. That would have implied pleasure unusually supervenient to what was by definition unpleasant, and that wasn't what was happening. No, whatever he was feeling, it was honest-to-God-bliss that lent a pink-cheeked and bright-eyed _glow_ about him, a look of ecstatic satisfaction that Guy himself would only understand when he felt it himself a year or so from now. He watched the other, breath catching in his throat at the sight of Roulé's long elegant neck: creamy, lightly marked with lovebites, tilted back and curving softly downwards into some kind of Platonic ideal. A gust of wind blew in from the open window and tousled his hair, the sun shining upon the back of his shoulders. the light fanning outwards as a finishing touch.  
  
He was perfect. He was unearthly, sublime, he was golden. There was no other word for it.  
  
" _Un ange!_ " Guy breathed, totally unaware of what he was saying. Roulé gasped at that and glanced at him wide-eyed as if to ask - _moi?_ \- but after a few seconds, he turned away from Guy coyly, touching the fingertips of one hand to his lips while running the other down his chest slow and tranquil. It was as if he had been laid bare before his lover again, ready to be held and ravished; Roulé radiated no active seduction, but rather one of infinite acceptance, so pure and open that Guy felt an intense warmth in his heart from just watching him. Nothing about him was dirty in the slightest.  
  
Roulé took a deep breath, and tried moving once more. That look of mild erotic pain crossed his features again. But this time he managed to move further off the bed, and sat perched upon the edge with the blankets covering his lap. "Do you want anything? To drink, maybe?" Guy asked, and got a nod in return. "some of that wine, then, hold on - I'm quite thirsty myself-"  
  
The older man blinked, looking alarmed, but only for a moment. He shook his head when the boy reached for the open bottle of wine, carefully leaning forwards and pushing his hand out of the way. "No?" Guy repeated, and got another (apologetic) shake of the head in return; Roulé had never prevented him from eating or drinking anything in the apartment before, this was new. But at the same time he knew that he must never consider himself _entitled_ to anything. "what would you want?"  
  
[Do you like hot chocolate]  
  
"I _love_ hot chocolate. Would you like me to make it, I'd like to do something for you for once."  
  
The offer was accepted graciously with a half-bow. Charmed, Guy stood up and made for the door. "I'll leave you to it," he called behind him as he headed into the kitchen, opening the cupboard to see what kind of hot chocolate he could make. He preferred the kind made with actual melted chocolate - didn't _everybody?_ \- and was delighted when he found a microplane and a hundred-gram bar of dark chocolate (75%), exactly enough for the two of them. In the fridge was enough milk for two mugs of hot chocolate, and he got to work quickly, washing his hands before pouring the same amount of milk in two saucepans and turning the heat on low. (He could have combined it all into one, but didn't want to risk burning it.) Breaking the chocolate into half, he then grated them quickly with the microplane, crumbling into pieces what was too thin for him to grate. He did not cook often as Thomas did, nor did he have as much interest in it, but he considered himself to be very efficient and precise when he tried.  
  
Behind him came the sound of the bathroom door shutting, and water turning on. The sound didn't stop. Evidently Roulé was making do with a shower today - with any luck that meant that he could enjoy the hot water genuinely without it growing cold around him. Just as long as he _enjoyed_ it, much like he'd enjoyed his entire day up to now.  
  
_L'amoureux de Roulé,_ Guy murmured to himself, lost in thought as he divided the chocolate into two neat piles and stirred the milk. _The lover of Roulé... Roulé's lover._ He found it an odd phrase to get used to. Guy found a whisk and stirred the chocolate into both saucepans, alternating carefully between them and turning down the heat even further to prevent the mixture from boiling. He gave the one on the left a taste and found that it needed no sugar; satisfied, he took both pans off the heat and poured the hot chocolate into their respective mugs, tilting the pan from a certain height to ensure that a delicious creamy froth would rise to the surface. He let the chocolate rest as he quickly washed up everything and placed them aside, then he took the mugs to the living room, setting both upon the glass table and only then allowing himself to put away his satchel and relax. He had no urgent homework, nor did he really feel like reading the books he'd gotten out from the library; the largest and most visible item in his satchel was his sketchbook, so he tugged that out and flicked through it while he waited. A pencil that he'd stuck in its wire-bound spine fell out, and he twirled it mindlessly around his thumb.  
  
Were Roulé and his lover formal with each other, or as casual as schoolboys, or engaging in a very particular kind of dynamic? Was this lover just an _exceptionally_ long-lived admirer of Roulé, or was there more than that between them? Perhaps it was a mixture of both. The arrangement that Roulé had said that they had couldn't have come about otherwise. But one thing was certain, and that was the fact that this lover made the older man very, _very_ happy. Why, today he was so happy that even the environment around them was reflecting it, bright and cheerful. A far cry from merely three days ago.  
  
Could _he_ ever feel fulfilled like that, one day?  
  
Just as he was finishing this thought, a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders and held on playfully. "Roulé!" Guy exclaimed, at first surprised; but soon he was laughing, leaning backwards and feeling the man's shirt brush against him. "what is it? You're in such a good mood today... sorry that I keep going on about it, but it's - it's so _nice_."  
  
Roulé's body shook slightly and Guy knew that he was laughing, too; his fingers were toying with Guy's hair, his cheek pressing softly against the boy's own. His skin was smooth, a dry towel draped loosely around his shoulders, his body wash smelling of cocoa butter and honey. " _Ton chocolat,_ " Guy gestured at the table, reminded at the scent, and Roulé leaned over to take the mug. He held it with two hands clasped around it, close to his chest, eyes closing at the warmth before taking a sip. The moment he did so he blinked, eyes wide with pleasure, before taking a longer drink out of the mug and nuzzling his cheek against it blissfully.  
  
Guy had to smile. Roulé was an absolute fountain of affection today. It was wonderful to see.  
A much-needed quiet settled between the two of them as they sipped hot chocolate and rested together, Roulé recovering from his night and Guy from his day, flicking the pages of his sketchbook lethargically. It wasn't until some time later that he glanced next to him and saw that Roulé was also looking down at his drawings with interest. Startled, he awkwardly put down his empty mug and coughed, making as if to close the book before the older man extended a hand to stop him. "... Y-yes?"  
  
Roulé looked into his eyes and began to talk, much in the same fashion as he had done on Tuesday. Guy immediately stared down at his lips, trying to make out recognizable words (he was quite proficient at lip-reading by now), but within a minute or two he was left quite baffled. "Are you... are you even speaking French?"  
  
"..."  
  
The older man paused only to grin wide, and carried on 'speaking'. He remained just frustratingly short of comprehensible. Guy stared at him, utterly mystified, before he finally caught on after Roulé said something that resulted in a soft, rapid exhale. It was like a hiss, but not quite, and was noticeably a sound that did _not_ exist in French.  
  
_... 'Ich'? 'Nichts'?_  
  
_"... Allemande?"_ he finally offered tentatively, and got an eager nod in return. "German! I should have known... _tut mir leid_ , what were you saying? You might have to help me out, I don't read German as accurately."  
  
Roulé tore off the top sheet from his notepad and presented it to him in response. The essence of his speech had already been written there.  
  
[ _Du bist ein guter Künstler_ ]  
  
"... Oh _no_ ," Guy protested, his cheeks turning pink, but he resumed flicking the pages of his sketchbook slowly. Neither he nor Thomas was planning to carry on art through their Première year, having been told that they were talentless in it (though for different reasons), and they'd both taken that judgement as the gospel truth. "I'm not! I'm really, really not. Me and Thomas only get by because we help each other out, we're both about this level."  
  
[What are those empty pages for]  
  
_Oh, those._ "It's for next week," Guy explained - he'd set aside two pages for the art assignment that Thomas had told him about, putting the work he'd done since then ahead of those. "I should have filled them in sooner, maybe... but yeah, I need to hand in two sketches of a model, front and back, that's really all it is," he paused there, about to add that Thomas had asked him to be his model. Roulé was one step faster, though; he beamed so suddenly that Guy was quite lost for words, then leant down to write, so excited that his handwriting even blurred together at points.  
  
[I'll be your model  
That's what you can do for me draw me]  
  
The boy stared, taken aback. Surely he wasn't serious. "... What, r-really? But I'm not... it's literally for school, nothing... _important_..."  
  
[It wouldn't be the first time I was someone's muse or art model  
Take it as a lesson in life drawing  
Just do not make eye contact with me after you begin]  
  
"... And why's that?"  
  
[Etiquette]  
  
_Ah._  
  
He could see that logic, actually. He almost felt foolish for having asked. Of course art models wouldn't appreciate people trying to catch their eye all the time, or giving them looks laced with intentions totally irrelevant to their work. Roulé seemed to have interpreted this as further hesitation, and while Guy was still considering what to do (and nibbling at the end of his pencil), wrote down a plea even softer and longing than the one that'd come before.  
  
[And yes I really do mean this in earnest  
I'd love it if you could immortalize me]  
  
"Isn't 'immortalize' too strong a word for it?" Guy protested slightly, feeling his cheeks heat up. But Roulé merely carried on looking at him with hope and suggestive confidence, and in full honesty the boy couldn't say in good faith that the man's offer _wasn't_ tempting. The only live modeling he'd ever participated in was in class, with a female classmate who couldn't keep still for ten minutes. Having as his model someone like Roulé - someone as well-defined as he, one who seemed to know what they were doing - was an attractive thought, and Guy couldn't see how it would disadvantage either of them. After all, he genuinely _did_ want to give something heartfelt and personal to Roulé, and this was a fantastic opportunity to do so. Purely on the surface level, too, he was only meant to be handing in a couple of sketches; nothing serious, entirely above the waist and with no pre-specified models. He'd still model for his friend, and by chance the drawings of Roulé didn't turn out as good as he wanted, he had a second chance with Thomas. What harm could it do, really?  
  
He'd said nothing throughout all of this, but Roulé could read on his face that he was becoming convinced, and touched over the back of his shoulder gently with a smile. "Okay. I'll keep that in mind," the boy finally nodded, encouraged by the contact. "I'll draw you. I'm just going to get a chair, could you take up a position on the couch?" he said as he opened his sketchbook to a blank page.  
  
Without hesitation, Roulé stood up, turned his back on the boy - and began to _throw off his clothes_. "... What the - _no!_ Oh, no - no, no, _no_ , I didn't - I meant-" Guy yelped, a furious blush streaking across his cheeks and ducking behind his sketchbook. "it's... it's not... you don't need to be _nude_ for it, Roulé...!"  
  
But to no avail. Before he'd even finished speaking, Roulé had undressed completely, and was even stepping out of his boxers; it was a blessing that his back was turned to Guy, for the boy dared to peek just for a second and thankfully caught no sight of anything that he really shouldn't have been seeing. (Though he was wishing desperately that the windows had been closed - the sun shone in and illuminated the side of Roulé's smirking face, and while he looked wonderful, that changed nothing about the fact that he was _stark naked_ and possibly visible to anyone watching from the outside.) He hid his face quickly again as the older man turned around, whispering a soft _oh mon Dieu_ as he revisited the brief image of Roulé's full, nude body - only from the back, sure, and there was not a chance that he could actually _draw_ him in that way, but it was an artistically pleasant body nonetheless. "N-nude models aren't my thing," he mumbled shyly from behind the sketchbook. "never had to... um, draw them... if you could... cover yourself up a little, Roulé, please..."  
  
He wasn't looking, but he could sense Roulé's playfully-exasperated gaze resting on the top of his head - _The things you make me do, Guy-Manuel! I've only just made the effort to get them off, and now you want me to pick them up all over again?_ \- and blushed even more. But Roulé merely raised an eyebrow and smirked again before doing as asked, draping the towel that he'd put aside around his waist and heading for the couch, his footsteps a cue for Guy to look up again. Even so the towel moved a little out of the way when he lay down, riding up his upper thighs and stopping just short of revealing himself again, which didn't help with Guy's embarrassment in the slightest. Once he'd gotten into position (arms splayed out casually, one resting above the back of the couch and the other dangling loosely by his side), however, he became very still and serious almost like a statue, expression relaxing, and neither moved nor gave him a second glance.  
  
He was done teasing. Guy was free to begin.  
  
Once he'd recovered, Guy hurried towards the dining table for a chair, and placed it at an angle that allowed him to see Roulé face-on. "Thank you, again," he murmured before sitting down, hastily flicking to the first empty page; he'd stabbed at the page a couple of times with his pencil, still dumbfounded from what had happened, before he forced himself to stop and actually think.  
  
_Calm down... calm down, Guillaume, plan it out first, don't just jump to it._  
  
Yes. Yes, of course. He took a deep breath and sized up the other's form properly, trying to see how much of it he could translate onto the page. Taking the top of the towel as his cut-off point, he decided on the rough scale that he would be drawing in, and also where Roulé's head, shoulders and waist should be. He gave himself thirty seconds to sketch out the broad outline of the other, not wanting to lose his grip on what he'd established, and only then began to draw proper, keeping his pace steady. The idea of Roulé 'waiting' was quite intimidating, as was the expectations placed upon him, but once he let the practical side of him take over, it wasn't at all bad. _What might actually be bad is the end result,_ he thought wryly, _but let's see how it goes._  
  
He glanced up. Roulé was gazing at him. Guy tried desperately to not meet his eyes, but for a second or two he caught them anyway, and the sultry smile that came with them. Guy already wasn't a fan of being stared at; if he allowed Roulé's stare to get to him, he'd probably buckle down in embarrassment and never get up again. Best to avoid that, he decided, ducking his head shyly. 'Do not make eye contact with me', indeed - ah, if only Roulé would actually _help him out!_  
  
As he drew he remarked that the older man possessed a wonderful body, but Guy appreciated it in the way that he would have appreciated a marble sculpture corded off in the middle of an art gallery. He was more fascinated because - if he could forgive himself for being ridiculously tautological - Roulé's body was an _adult_ one, fully developed and well-proportioned. That in itself wasn't what was intriguing to Guy; it was rather the possibility of it, that _that_ was a possible end result of natural human development. He couldn't understand this easily, not when he and Thomas still suffered growing pains. When he felt that the other wasn't looking, he briefly stopped sketching and glanced down at his hands, finding them awkward and waifish compared to the rest of him. It was true, he was nowhere near done growing - his facial hair hadn't even come in, and whilst his voice had deepened, it hadn't done so significantly. He knew plenty of other boys, some younger than him even, who looked far more mature than he.  
  
Again, this hadn't been anything to worry about until now.  
He resumed his sketch, only too aware of the other's stare fixed upon him. For a second he wondered if Roulé might be able to advise him on such matters - after all, he was the most sexualized person Guy currently knew - but then immediately decided against it, finding the idea perverse. Just as much as the older man was his refuge, he suspected that he was Roulé's, and bringing that up seemed selfish and tactless. What did he expect Roulé to _do_ about it, anyway? It wasn't as if one could _breathe_ sexuality into someone else.  
  
"I'm done," he said, and flipped the page, still unable to quite believe what he'd managed to draw. "turn around, please?" Roulé immediately turned around to lie on his stomach, exposing his flawless, creamy-smooth back, the curve of his backside ever more visible under the towel as he threw Guy a flirtatious glance. "oh, you're just being _unfair._ Yes, you _are_ very handsome, Roulé, but you were the one who told me not to make eye contact with you. Close your eyes, please, you might as well. Gives me a different perspective."  
  
This got a small pout out of Roulé, but he seemed entirely agreeable to this request, and closed his eyes. While he was at it, he also shifted positions a little to pillow his head on one arm, the other now hanging over the edge of the couch. His position was more horizontal than before, almost flat - Guy would have to turn his sketchbook to the side, and he did so, finding it a pity that he neither had the skills, time nor the requirement to draw Roulé in full. His sketches were inevitably going to make it look as if Roulé were floating in midair or spilling off the page, and the older man was too good of a model for that, really. Nevertheless he rose to the challenge, surveying Roulé's position intently and establishing where his shoulders and hips should fall before getting to it.  
  
A car beeped far in the distance. The sun had gone down a little more, flooding the apartment with a golden-orange glow, chiaroscuro staining the page where the man's body was beginning to take shape. Guy bit his lip in concentration, focused almost entirely on Roulé, save for the occasional flick of the pencil to 'suggest' the outline of the couch that he was lying on. What his art teacher had said to him once rang in his ears as he worked, the sheer effort of his challenge now beginning to dawn upon him.  
  
_Your lines are too hard, Guy. You're focused too much on preserving the exact form._  
_What you've put on the page is accurate, but - you're merely reproducing the figure, instead of really drawing them, are you not?_  
  
_Where's the soul in it?_  
  
_Nowhere._ His soul had never been in it, because he'd never been face to face with a live, soulful model. He was not one who could breathe life into sculptures or already-existing reference drawings, and the female classmate they'd all had to draw hadn't been into the whole business, having been chosen at random and having been too nervous to keep still. Guy fancied himself quite analytical, focused on hard shapes and accuracy more in line with an architect or engineer rather than a true artist, but even he recognized something about art being a _reflection_ of the soul, and not just that of the artist's own. He was sure that it was more of an _exchange_ , albeit a distanced one, between artist and model - and when the model's soul was inaccessible, well, what else could he do but to produce something devoid of feeling?  
  
But with Roulé, it was noticeably different. Roulé wasn't lively - he kept incredibly still, and now that he had his back turned to Guy, he honestly looked more _comatose_ than truly alive - but beneath the surface the boy was only too aware of the fact that they were participating in this together. Roulé had consented, eager to be drawn; Guy was doing as he had asked, respectful of the other's desires. They were _communicating_.  
  
He sketched the general curve of Roulé's back in a single flowing stroke, right down the spine, before casually filling in the rest. Then he looked back up, tilting his head a little to look towards Roulé's face, and noted to his amusement that the man had fallen asleep. Well, he was happy. That in itself was enough reward for Guy, that the other was so relaxed around him, and he pulled his chair a little closer to try to take in the details.  
  
During the last sketch, he hadn't been able to get Roulé's features down properly, because he'd been too shy to stare at him long enough. It was time to fill those in now.  
Guy marveled at the curve of his mouth even as he sketched it in and found it a relatively simple exercise; it still reminded him of something and he couldn't pinpoint what, but that aside, it was wonderful. Then came the gentle hollow of his cheeks, then his straight nose (he actually went back to the previous sketch to detail this again) - his dark, straight eyebrows that contrasted vividly with the curl of his hair and yet complimented it also. When Guy looked even closer, he saw that Roulé's hair wasn't _bleached_ any more; no, it was _bona fide_ golden, a subdued demerara-blond, scented sweet and rich like it. At that point, the words just slipped out. "You're _beautiful_ , Roulé," he breathed softly, not having intended to say it in the first place, and yet he meant every word of it. "you are, you're the most beautiful man that I've ever seen, how can anyone not want to..."  
  
_... To protect you?_  
  
That was what _he_ wanted when he was looking at Roulé. Not many adults apparently felt the same. "Who _are_ you, Roulé?" Guy carried on whispering quietly, his words lost in the space between his chair and the couch, hanging in the air and vanishing away like mist. Roulé failed to stir. "what is it that you want from me? How can you bear this life, doesn't your lover mind? Do _you_ really not mind?"  
  
Just _where_ had he and his beloved come from, why was it that one of them was wandering the earth?  
Why was it that one of them was _here_ , and the other wasn't? These were questions beyond what he'd asked before. Prior to this, Guy had kept to the questions about physical facts, about the part of the older man's past that Guy _himself_ had been alive for and contemporary to. He had been interested in _occurrences_ : how he had lost his voice, how he had come to reside in Montmartre to lead this life, how he knew and did the things that he demonstrated on a frequent basis. But looking at him, bathed honey-soft in the sun, Guy felt a sinking sensation deep inside as he realized that he had to go down far deeper than just that. The true questions about Roulé were beyond _events_ \- no, they were about the abstract, about his desires and purpose on earth, things that the man himself likely had no answers to.  
  
"... Why can't you and he be together? What's stopping the two of you? And - and can I help, somehow?"  
  
He paused, feeling breathless. Roulé's mouth twitched in a smile as he slept.  
  
"... Is that why you... that day..."  
  
_Is that why you touched me?_  
_Were you choosing me, Roulé - or was I somehow chosen before?_  
  
He put his pencil down. There was nothing more here that he could reproduce. He hadn't drawn Roulé's eyes in either picture; everything else was there (he'd focused especially on the curve of the other's lips, finding that to be feature that he found himself most drawn to) but not his eyes, save for the faintest outline of them. He'd thought of drawing the other's usual glasses in lieu of eyes, but had abandoned that thought after acknowledging that he wasn't wearing them at present. Guy wasn't there to _falsify._ Perhaps he could get away with not representing him in his entirety, but never with faking anything about Roulé as he saw him now; his conscience wouldn't allow it.  
  
There in his drawings was his soul, _there_ , in his honesty.  
  
Guy looked up. The towel around Roulé's waist was a dark, startling red.  
That seemed to be the man's thing in general. In such a monochromatic, minimalist apartment as his, the only colours that Guy had gotten used to seeing in there were black, white, varying kinds of grey and a metallic shade or two. His wardrobe too was stocked similarly, the occasional cool blue visible amidst the others, but the boy had never gotten the impression that Roulé was fond of bright colours. In general, that was, except for red. Ranging from the ruby red of pomegranate seeds to the lightly-blushing pink roses that he received from his clients, they added startling patches of colour to his apartment that it lacked otherwise. He glanced over at Roulé again. The man's eyes remained closed, his chest heaving gently and slowly as if asleep. Careful to not rouse him, he got up, stepped back a little and observed the overall effect. The couch was bluish-grey, Roulé was pale to the point of looking unearthly on it, and the towel lay atop him like a deep dark gash. It was at once a powerful and delicate image, the man at once so fragile and yet so pure that it was unsettling.

Whatever his clients saw when they were in bed with him, it was probably nothing like this.  
They would never dare to even _touch_ him with a fingertip if that had been the case. Such was his intensity.

Guy returned to his seat, and after a moment of uncertain silence, looked up and tried to imagine Roulé having sex. He couldn't. It was not a matter of distaste; he literally _couldn't_ imagine it, and lacked the interest to truly persevere. As he'd previously prided himself on his vivid imagination, this was troubling to him on at least one level. But when he gazed out of the window into the distance and tried to imagine it from a different perspective, thinking of Roulé being _adored_ by someone, _then_ his mind became flooded with detail. Not lewd ones, necessarily: he thought of the other being held, being kissed all over his cheeks and mouth, Roulé tilting his head back to laugh and allow his partner to see him. He thought of their bare feet brushing against each other, the playful rustle of the bedsheets as they made love, the faceless lover nevertheless smiling with the utmost gentleness as he leaned in, rocked his hips and called Roulé by his _real name_ \- wanting, needing, seeing nothing but each other.  
  
Now that was a lovely picture. Guy could agree with that wholeheartedly, even if he felt no heat from it. He looked over at his model with that new awareness in mind and understood that his body possessed _words_ , it was speaking out loud, filling in the gaps where Roulé's voice failed. _Look at me,_ his body seemed to be whispering. _Look at me, my darling, look at how beautiful I am, how soft, how smooth - all for you, for your eyes only. Look at the wonder you've made me into, love me, take me with you._  
  
_I belong to you, I'm waiting here for your sake, oh, notice me, please..._  
  
His heart ached at that thought, and Guy raised his hand to his chest with a soft 'oh', fingers closing softly over his shirt. He doubted that the man looked exactly like this when he was working, but he always radiated his beauty, sage-like patience and a willingness to listen. Why was it that no one seemed to recognize that he desired to be noticed in return?  
  
_... Everyone in the world just wants to be given a little care, and to be close to someone who can hear them out-_  
  
How could anyone stand to look at Roulé and still _hurt_ him? What had he done so wrong - no, what exactly had gone so wrong with _those people_ who hurt him for their own pleasure? Guy closed his eyes, the sketch long since forgotten, feeling another stab of agony as he thought of what he'd seen on Tuesday. The other was acting fine now, but Guy knew, he just _knew_ , that Roulé had been abused long before he'd come along - and that he would continue to encounter people who would hit him, abuse him, try to force him to bend to their will, and that there was little he could do about it. Most of his clients were not of that type, but he'd known Roulé for a month and had seen him hurt twice already. Getting brutalized once per fortnight was not even _close_ to ideal (never, in other words), it meant absolutely nothing good about some of those people, and that pained Guy so badly he could barely stand it. He couldn't bear to imagine how _frightened_ Roulé must have felt during those times, how _painful_ it must have been-  
  
_... There is no one in the world not worth listening to, Guy-Manuel... even if they make no sound..._  
  
It dawned upon him then, how vulnerable Roulé could be. He'd never thought Roulé _malicious_ , but at the same time the man possessed something about him that would have made it unwise for Guy to toe the line. At least he'd thought that before, having mainly been startled into co-operating with the other, but as he gazed down at Roulé he felt all of his misgivings vanish. This was a man who wanted to tell his story and be listened to in turn, no matter how fragmented it was; this was a man who craved adoration so badly that he refused to begrudge someone who'd tied him up and left him without help all night; behind his cool, well-crafted persona lay a man desperately lonely for what he couldn't reach, whether be it his voice, his lover or his purpose, and Guy was seeing the true him now. Roulé had needed someone to show that to, that he was _here_ , and for whatever reason, he'd chosen Guy - and after thinking of everything that had happened, the boy no longer wanted to complain about it.  
  
If he could respect all of that, and yet still be genuinely awed at the beauty that lay in front of him, then - why, he _was_ a romanticist, after all.  
Guy could reach out right now, run his hand over his skin milky-smooth like quartz and venture beneath the towel if he wanted to, and Roulé wouldn't resist in his current uxorious state. But he didn't do so, for there was no sense to it; neither he nor Roulé would get anything out of such an act, because he recognized that they were fine and perfect where they already were. So what if he wasn't quite getting the physical aspects of romance yet, he'd pick it up as he went about his life. And even if he never did - well, what of it? He'd confirmed that he could appreciate and respond to such emotions, that he _cared,_ and that was the most important thing. Those realizations finally put Guy's mind to rest.  
  
_I'll let time handle it._  
  
As he was pondering this the older man stirred faintly; his eyes blinked open, and when he saw Guy he gave him a tired, grateful smile and rolled to his side. With one elegant hand he gestured for the boy to draw near, wanting to see the sketch. "I'm sorry I couldn't finish it completely... your eyes..." _I can't get them half as striking as they actually are. I'm sorry, Roulé._ "I feel like I haven't done you justice."  
  
But he had done well - Roulé didn't seem to mind the lack of eyes, and in fact, nodded in approval as soon as he saw the sketches, evidently _preferring_ it that way. He gazed down at both, brushing his hair back for a second and looking very satisfied with himself, before returning the sketchbook to Guy with an admiring glance. _Bravo_ , he mouthed, caught the boy's hand - and to further show how pleased he was, bent down to press his lips soundlessly to the back of it. They were very soft, so much that the contact would have been imperceptible if they hadn't also been cool to the touch. It wasn't an unpleasant coldness either, more like how the nose of a happy and well-rested cat would feel against human skin. All of those observations were afterthoughts, however; while it was actually occurring, Guy was too tense and surprised to have any opinion. Unsure of how to react, he looked into Roulé's eyes, and Roulé gazed back at him, his expression entirely open.  
  
_... Does this mean... can I...?_  
  
He didn't know what he was expecting, but he pulled his hand out of the other's grasp gently and raised it. When he rested his hand upon Roulé's shoulder, the older man didn't resist at all. For once his body was the temperature it ought to have been, probably from the sun warming him up and being in such a good mood in the first place - his skin was very slippery and smooth, taut but not unpleasantly so. Guy swallowed heavily as he dared to run his palm softly down the other's back - he wasn't sure _what_ was motivating him to do this, aside from artistic curiosity, but Roulé's reaction was well worth it. At the slow touch (caress?) Guy felt a gentle tremor running through the other's body, Roulé's eyes sliding half shut as he softly nudged at the boy's arm with his forehead. Then he ran his hand back up to rest upon the other's throat and realized that he was _purring_ , almost exactly as a cat would, pleasant and low.  
  
"Oh," Guy whispered. The tension broke, and he began to laugh. "oh, _Roulé! Merci_ ," he said with a slight blush and a modest incline of his head, as a gentleman artist would have, and the older man smiled sweetly. It didn't feel silly to be doing so, not with him. It had been a very eventful week for Roulé and himself, but the older man had ended it on a fantastic note, and Guy felt honoured to have depicted it. "and I should leave you be now, you look really tired... thank you so much for letting me draw you," the man shook his head once, raising both of his hands in impish protest. _"viens, Roulé, viens avec moi."_  
  
He'd gotten Roulé out of bed, and within a couple of hours he was putting him back _in_ it. Funny how things worked out.  
  
The older man left first, gathering up his discarded clothes on the floor as he went past and into the bedroom; Guy took that time to pack up his sketchbook and pencils, buckling his satchel shut, slinging it around his shoulder and ducking briefly into the kitchen to check if the stove was turned off before he followed suit. Roulé was sitting on the bed, the covers drawn back (showing the pleasantly-mussed bedsheets beneath) as he folded up his clothing as crisp and neat as he would have _bought_ it. When that was done, he set the bundle aside on the bedside table, swung his legs over and beneath the covers, and got into bed proper. When the covers were halfway up his waist he reached down and pulled the towel off himself - the boy graciously averted his eyes - and dropped it where the pile of his other set of clothes were laying. The contrast between that and the ones he'd just folded up made Guy chuckle, and he reached over to tug the blankets up properly, doing his bit to hide the older man in comforting darkness. "There," he said, tucking them around his shoulders - Roulé laughed, eyes drifting shut, and rolled over onto his stomach. The notepad and pen still lay by the pillow and he took them up with a kind of languid flourish, making sure that the boy was watching as he began to write.  
  
[I am obliged to you Guy-Manuel  
One day should you need my help I will repay this debt thoroughly]  
  
"Oh, no," Guy protested softly. "it's not at all necessary."  
  
[Ask and it shall be given unto you]  
  
He was being as insistent as he could without inflection or outright demand, and the boy didn't think it polite to refuse any further.  
But Roulé already had enough to deal with without him in the picture, no doubt; so he said nothing and simply waited for the older man to either continue or stop. Roulé smiled again - slower, fainter, as he was beginning to drift - and lifted the notepad above his face to write again.  
  
[It's a day off today I think]  
  
Guy nodded, satisfied at this turn of events. "That's good," _I mean that most sincerely, Roulé, you deserve it. You need rest._ "I'll stay until you're asleep... and then I'll go. Look after yourself, Roulé, I'll be back tomorrow."  
  
[I've been with no one but him and you today  
Just like the happiest day of my life]  
  
Guy's heart thumped a little louder, but he pretended not to notice it. "... When _was_ the happiest day of your life?"  
  
Roulé set the notepad aside and turned his body to fully face Guy, his expression amused as if to say: _what a question that is_. He reached out to stroke the back of Guy's hand, coaxing him to turn it palm upwards, before beginning to write on it as he had done when he'd visited the boy at Thomas's house. But Guy didn't look down at himself this time. He could _feel_ it. As he gazed into Roulé's face he let the gentle ticklish sensation of the other's finger on his palm take over, slowly able to make sense of the patterns he traced onto his skin; when he was done, Roulé gently closed Guy's own fingers over his palm, making him clench and hold onto what he had written lest it melt away into nothing.  
  
[ _Aujourd'hui_ ]  
  
The word burned on his palm: _Today,_ Guy whispered wordlessly, looking into the man's eyes, and Roulé touched his cheek to the boy's hand affectionately before letting go, exhaling a sigh, and closed his eyes to sleep. The other's touch remained upon his skin, warm and soothing this time, entirely human.  
  
_Thank you for being part of what has been the happiest day of my life, Guy-Manuel. You're wonderful._  
  
Guy watched all this, and suddenly felt like crying, but he didn't know why.  
  
He thought of Roulé's otherworldly lover.  
_Whoever you are,_ he couldn't help but wish, directing it towards himself because there was no one else. _Whoever you are... he misses you, please come back to him, you've left such a special person behind._ Perhaps Roulé had heard him that time, perhaps he had not. Either way he gave no indication of having done so, and when Guy tucked him back in he curled into the warmth of the blankets, clutching them from beneath with his hand and holding them fast to his body, immersing himself into the scent and memories of the night before. Guy sat there until the sun had ducked behind the clouds and Roulé had fallen asleep again, at which point he quietly gathered up his satchel and left.  
  
Montmartre, and the Sacré Cœur, lay limitless and drowsy-sweet behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damn it Crydamoure careful with those wines everything you touch becomes a love potion  
> Don't you love it when characters in fiction manage to draw reasonable, positive and yet the most _unhelpful_ conclusion from whatever happens to them.
> 
> This is the longest chapter by far and I don't expect this to be topped. However it finally got past the true halfway point, and expanded upon a truly healing moment, and I don't feel like many words were wasted on it. I thank you all again for your support, this is turning out to be quite a novel - I'm so grateful that people read this and like it! :3
> 
> * ' _Geborgenheit_ ' is a German word difficult to define in English; the closest I can get is 'warmth/comfort/security', the feeling of complete and utter contentment and safety.  
> * 8th May 1990 was indeed a Tuesday, and Victory in Europe Day (Victoire 1945) was being celebrated. The next chapter will contain a detailed account of that.  
> * The only war memorial in the seventeenth _arrondissement_ of Paris actually is in Lycée Carnot, where the boys went to school.  
>  * The philosophy lesson is about the role of emotion in Spinozan ethics (i.e. none, as he disbelieved in letting ourselves be ruled by 'passions').  
> * René's chip flavour is ' _poulet braisé_ ', grilled chicken.  
> * The Latin speaking exam is based off how the French Baccalaureat does it; where the grammar really gets messed up was intended to be referring to book IV of the Aeneid where Dido commits suicide. Virgil took advantage of the flexibility of Latin word order to really convey the disorientation and anguish she felt, as far as I know, which gives both a powerful, eerie effect and causes headaches for Latin students to this day.  
> * You can tell I had to eat cold fries when I wrote the lunch section, and that it really was depressing and disappointing. Cold fries are the saddest, and so's having to write 'fries' instead of 'chips' like the Brit I am to avoid reader confusion ;_;  
> * The sound that tips Guy off to what language Roulé is speaking in refers to the voiceless palatal fricative, or the ' _ich-Laut_ ' in German. It indeed does not seem to exist in French.  
> * Life drawing section killed me. Killed me dead. I don't know anything about drawing and had to make do with a mixture of navelgazing and drawing tips from the internet; I hope it wasn't too much of a drag to read!  
> * Cat noses are very soft and cold and slightly moist when they're happy <3
> 
> I enjoy comments/kudos/questions, whether here on tumblr.


	6. Wunderkind

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 06) - _'Wunderkind'_**

\------------------

Over that weekend, Guy had a dream. It was one that spanned the last of Saturday night to a great deal of Sunday morning, interrupted only by the near-midday sun tickling his face; it was a dream less describable as _nice_ or _pleasant_ than it was powerfully _realistic_. Roulé had specifically told him that he wasn't to come on Sunday, because he would be spending the whole day with a client, so he'd allowed himself a little more time to sleep in than the usual. He'd been at once glad for the break, and feeling a little empty that he wouldn't be in the older man's presence that day, and perhaps that sentiment had permeated into his dreams, he didn't know.  
  
(When it came to Roulé, though, he'd given up on fussing over _things that he didn't know_.)  
  
The dream itself. Yes. Like most dreams, this one too began with a wholly inexplicable (though comprehensible) premise. He began the dream by boarding a Line 2 train towards Montmartre, with the absolute certainty in his mind that he was heading to Roulé's apartment to retrieve his uniform jacket where he'd left it on Friday afternoon. Whilst it was a motivation that made sense, this setup also enabled Guy to first realize that he was dreaming, because it so blatantly contradicted the truth; he had most definitely come home with the jacket and hung it up in the wardrobe where it belonged, and had seen it in there several times since then. Guy merely humoured his own subconscious because he'd never truly lucid-dreamed before, him having attributed Roulé's visit to him in Thomas's house to reality a while back, and he found it on the whole rather harmless and whimsical.  
  
He was fortunate. Some of his loved ones weren't so lucky with their first time, journeying through their own minds, though it wasn't as if Guy knew any of this.  
  
Only at Victor Hugo Station did he start to really take in his surroundings. The realization that he was in a dream solidified when he looked around and saw that the commuters around him were at the best featureless _shapes_ \- a trick of memory, retrieving what he remembered but not managing to transfer every detail through, because he hadn't taken notice of them. He looked down at himself to see that he was wearing the remainder of his school uniform: short-sleeved white shirt, his school tie, belt and jeans, though he was wearing a different blue denim jacket over it in lieu of his proper one. He alone was well-defined ("I should damn well hope so!", he said out loud with a mock-haughty grin) as far as he could see, and because he knew that he was in control he didn't feel in the slightest bit afraid.  
  
Though, if he were being entirely honest, he _did_ feel somewhat out of place in his own dreamscape. He was more real than everyone else that he could see, and that threw an illusory block over his awareness of being in charge of this place. At that point the train stopped at Charles de Gaulle - Étoile, and Roulé himself in his grey-suited, blue-shirted and briefcase-carrying glory boarded, looking barely any different to the first time that Guy had seen him. Even his hair was dark, again. The older man saw him and smiled; as he began to approach, Guy took a breath - closed his eyes briefly - and waited for Roulé to _touch him again_ , to re-establish his place in the world.  
  
_Salut,_ Roulé greeted him. Only he had some measure of colour and a different scent compared to everyone else on the train.  
  
" _Salut_ ," Guy whispered, and when the older man rested a cool hand on his shoulder, he didn't resist. Roulé, having felt the boy relax against him, looked pleasantly surprised; he didn't venture much further, probably having deemed Guy well under his influence by this point and seeing no need to do so. But he did reach out and tighten his arm around Guy's shoulders as a whole, gently pulling him closer to lean against his body; again, the boy didn't refuse his touch. They stayed like that for a while, gazing out of the windows of the train together, waiting to arrive at their destination largely in silence.  
  
"What _do_ you carry in that briefcase of yours?" Guy asked out loud, two stations before Pigalle. Roulé merely smirked at him and gave no answer.  
_Understandable,_ Guy thought wryly. _Of course he can't give me an answer, because I don't know it! How silly of me._  
  
When they reached Pigalle, they disembarked together and began walking in sync through the familiar streets. Guy chuckled as they passed the fruit stall he'd become a regular at, plus all the surroundings that he now realized that he knew far better than he'd first thought. Judging by Roulé's pace and his attitude, there was no doubt that the older man knew what he'd come for, there was no need to ask. Indeed when they reached the apartment, taking the elevator up together, Roulé barely looked behind him as he opened the door and went directly to his bedroom, throwing his wardrobe doors open and beginning a long, careful search through it. Guy couldn't see his uniform jacket anywhere else in the house or elsewhere, so he assumed that somewhere in those depths Roulé had hung it up for when he came to retrieve it.  
  
"Thanks for keeping it safe for me," he said, hanging his denim jacket up and coming to lean against the doorway. "and I might as well ask now - about the _Victoire,_ are you working then?"  
  
Roulé glanced at him briefly and nodded before continuing to rifle through his clothing. "I see. I was kind of hoping you wouldn't be - much-needed breaks and all," Guy said, and looked down. His own voice sounded distant and hollow to him, but at the same time, he felt more eloquent than usual. "but... everyone has their own set of circumstances, and what have you, so... _oui, je comprends_. Anyway, I won't be able to come on Tuesday because of that, I'm spending time with Thomas. I hope you won't mind too awfully."  
  
There was no real acknowledgment of this in the positive or the negative, but the older man gestured for him to enter, so he did. With only the briefest couple of glances and gestures, Roulé directed him against the wall of his most frequently-used phrases; _à gauche_ , he mouthed, and Guy went and stood by the most left-hand side of all the phrases. Then he held up four fingers, made a gesture with his thumb to indicate that he should move right, and then read the phrase at the very bottom.  
  
_Four across, all the way down._  
  
Guy found the phrase with no trouble, though he did have to stoop down to read it. When he did do so, though, he stared ahead at it with a blank look on his face before hurriedly giving the phrase a second read; only then did the meaning of the sentence register, along with all its lewdness. "Oh," Guy exclaimed, and immediately blushed a fiery red. " _oh!_ Oh, _my. Mais non!_ "  
  
Roulé's head jerked up again at that comment. When he saw what Guy had been reading, his mouth dropped open in shock and he quickly shook his head, colour flooding _very_ rapidly to his face. Strangely enough that gave Guy relief; he had no idea whether it was his mind being whimsical or if Roulé's tastes were just _that_ eccentric, but it was obvious that the older man was very embarrassed about the mix-up, and seeing him so humanly mortified was quite frankly rather endearing. The older man abandoned what he was doing to correct the mistake, hastily crossing the room and tapping the phrase one above what Guy had read - an incredibly tame _n'hésite pas_ \- then scribbling a message on the nearby notepad, a highly apologetic look on his face all the while.  
  
[Pardon me I should reorder all my phrases shouldn't I]  
  
"I wouldn't _protest_ ," Guy said, and giggled slightly, the tension melting away. He was still blushing from what he'd read, but it was well worth it just to see Roulé flustered. "but it's okay, honest! I'm just glad you understand. I'll be back on Wednesday on the usual time. Please stay safe, though?"  
  
The glow on Roulé's cheeks became a little more vivid, but this time it was with genuine pleasure. He never expressed it much, but he was clearly glad that he was with someone who was concerned for his well-being. He nodded, went back and leaned further into the wardrobe - and finally pulled out the other's uniform jacket, as neatly pressed and ironed as when he'd first had it fitted. Patting over the fabric (and over the gold-threaded edges) gently, he nodded at Guy to come over, and when he did so he got the boy to turn around so that he could put the jacket back on him.  
  
"Oh you don't have to," Guy said, but was silenced with a gentle pat to the cheek. It was quite charming how far he'd come with Roulé in such a short time; he'd started off terribly uncomfortable around him, but now he was one of the few people (aside from his parents, Thomas, Laurent and Rene) who he trusted with making any amount of bodily contact. He lifted one arm at a time and placed them through the jacket sleeves, and Roulé helped to pat the garment into place, straightening the boy's lapels and tie. His hands roamed briefly down Guy's chest and sides exactly the way they had done during their first meeting, but now that the boy had a _context_ \- being dressed - to refer to, he was quite unaffected by it. "... _merci_."  
  
Roulé stood back and surveyed him, rubbing his chin. He was slightly stubbled today, it made him look pleasantly roguish. Evidently what he'd seen pleased him, for he grinned and patted the boy on the shoulder before leaving the room again; left alone, Guy looked at himself in the mirror, curious to see how his dreams would present his own reflection. Was he making himself look handsomer than he really was, or less attractive? Even stranger still, would he even have a reflection? It turned out that he did, and he noted wryly as he turned slightly from side to side that he _was_ vain in his own dreams. His face looked softer (but not in the overly-boyish way), his eyes were bright and sharp, his clothes fit him so much better. Not that they were poor-fitting to begin with, but a uniform in real life was never a pinnacle of comfort.  
  
_No harm in being a little vain,_ he thought to himself, _if you can't be vain in your own dreams, when can you be?_  
He straightened his tie and checked his hair again, and only then left the room, seeing that Roulé was in the kitchen. He was already busy with something; likely another snack for his daily guest that he hadn't managed to make earlier on. " _As-tu besoin d'aide?_ " he asked (and got a shake of the head in return), feeling guilty for having dropped by so unexpectedly at the other's place, even though he knew that all this was no more than an illusion. Roulé always welcomed him, yes, but they had a fixed schedule, and it was poor form to be deviating from it even if it was only a dream.  
  
Not that Roulé seemed bothered by it.  
Not that Roulé was ever bothered much by _anything;_ he seemed to have been blessed with a truly incredible ability to forgive-and-forget, and whenever it was needed, too. He was making a cake this time, on closer inspection a type nearly identical to the one he'd given Guy the first time around. As the boy sat down at the nearby dining table and watched, butter and brown sugar were creamed together; apples were neatly cored and sliced; eggs, flour, cinnamon, milk and honey were all stirred in to create a rich, thick mixture in the bowl. Anyone who'd never seen him before might have thought his technique a disaster, for he never stopped to measure anything nor spent a long time on any one ingredient; Guy knew, though, that Roulé had no need for any of that. He'd probably done this so many times that cooking had become a second nature to him. It was admirable, really, he doubted many professional chefs could do better.  
  
Roulé briefly paused to look down at the bowl, wondering if there was anything he'd missed. Then with a movement barely perceptible he pinched out a little bit of fine-sea salt from a shaker, and sprinkled it into the mixture, folding it neatly in with the rest of the batter then pouring it into the already-greased tin he'd set aside. Nothing about what Roulé was doing was extraordinary, but it made Guy happy nonetheless, watching him and seeing how satisfied he was with himself. "Why do people do that?" he asked aloud, making the older man look over at him with one quirked eyebrow. "oh no, it wasn't meant towards you personally... I meant, why do people use salt at all when baking sweet things? I see it in recipes all the time but it never explains why, and I don't cook much, so..."  
  
Guy didn't want to pressure him into replying to anything and everything he said, so he trailed off there, watching merely to see what Roulé would do. The man glanced towards the ceiling for a moment, pouting his lips gently in thought, before he opened the oven door and placed the cake inside. Then he closed it, and tapped the fingers of his right hand atop the timer, left hand reaching to write straight away on the (now slightly flour-covered) notebook laying by the counter.  
  
[How should I put it]  
  
Roulé twirled the pen once around his left thumb as he thought through his answer, the other hand adjusting the oven timer.  
  
[Salt wakes up the flavours I guess that's the best way to explain it when I bake I always put in some so that whatever I'm baking can brown nicely and the rich and savoury edge comes out]  
  
"Ah. So... without it, they'd just come out too sweet or buttery and I wouldn't like that?"  
  
[That would be correct and no I don't think anyone with a functioning palate would like it there are many reasons why salt is important but that's certainly one of them  
I never bake without salt and you shouldn't either salt is very important a little bit of _fleur de sel_ on hot chocolate or fruit is delicious too only the best for my guests]  
  
Guy nodded. "I'll keep it in mind," he said, and inwardly vowed to look up the further roles of salt in baking later, when he'd woken up from the dream. Perhaps it could be a tip for Thomas as well, at least if the boy didn't know already. Roulé smiled at him, then filled a small red kettle to heat up on the stove. They were comfortably silent for a while, the older man standing completely still to watch the kettle whilst Guy leaned back, closed his eyes and let the gentle humming of the oven lull him into a trance. Because his dream allowed him to focus only on what was important, it was very quiet and lovely in the apartment with no outside noise or even the sense of time flowing. For the first time, Guy didn't feel as if he ought to be going home soon or that he had a schedule to adhere to - no, he was _living in the moment_ , warm and precious.  
  
He thought of whether he could fall asleep again in a dream. He was certainly feeling like it.  
He did not have to struggle for too long, however; the kettle spluttered and shook him out of his daydreams, and when he'd slowly rubbed his eyes and looked up again, he saw Roulé setting down a cup of coffee in front of him, strong and creamy.  
  
" _Pour moi?_ " he asked, and received a nod in return, the older man setting down his own cup opposite it. " _merci,_ " Guy smiled in response, and waited courteously for Roulé to sit down before raising the coffee to his lips, then he woke up.  
  
"..."  
  
His hair was tangled messily around his face, he'd half kicked off the covers in his sleep, and his room was already filled with the pleasantly-savoury smell of a lunchtime stew in its early stages. Guy was back home, very much deprived of that coffee, and as he stared up at the patterned ceiling of his room he could have sworn that Roulé's cologne was mingled in the air, too.  
  
"...! _Oh_."  
  
He sat up, and after a thorough check to see that his uniform was indeed in place, Guy ended up more amused than anything else. He hadn't ever really thought lucid dreams possible, and had found the notion of it rather alarming before - but now that he'd had one, it'd actully been a pleasant experience. He was eager to have another, even! The rest of Sunday passed for him in a light, dreamy daze, only punctuated now and then with the desire for that cup of coffee. His parents drank their coffee all black and there was no cream to be found in the fridge, so he couldn't replicate it right now; this craving persisted through the entire day and then some time after, and Guy was only too glad to assuage it when lunchtime rolled around and it was his turn to buy the snacks. The very same crêperie that Laurent had gone to on Friday was offering iced coffee alongside a variety of other drinks, and that drew him inside.  
  
"Just the coffee?" the worker behind the counter did ask.  
He did suppose that not buying any crepes from a crêperie did come off as odd. But business was business.  
  
_"Oui, c'est combien?"_  
  
It cost exactly the same as what he'd have paid for chocolate milk. After visiting the shop, he walked back leisurely to where his friends were waiting, careful not to spill the coffee. The day was very sunny and warm too, just the right kind of weather for what he'd bought. "There you are, I thought you'd gotten yourself lost or something," Thomas called out to him as soon as he was in sight; when he saw the coffee he raised his eyebrows in surprise and what looked like confusion beyond what the drink entailed. "... what's that?"  
  
"This, Thomas, is an iced coffee, as opposed to a hot one. It's all right. Everyone has to see one at some point, no need to be so surprised."  
  
The younger boy rolled his eyes. "Yes, that much is obvious. What I meant was _why_ an iced coffee."  
  
_"Ich weiss nicht, mein Freund, gar nichts,"_ Guy mumbled against the rim of the plastic cup, then took a long sip. The coffee was just the right amount of bittersweet, which made him feel better about drinking what was essentially glorified milkshake. "I just _felt_ like a coffee. What, does it come across like as a premature attempt at being an adult, or something?"  
  
"... Not _premature_ ," Thomas shook his head, and looked like he was about to say more - but faltered at the last second, making do with a slightly wistful smile as he turned to his _crème-caramel_ and peeled the top off. But he didn't begin eating it until he'd finished with the rest of his lunch, quite unlike his usual boyish impatience, and when he finally got to it he took his time and didn't focus on licking the spoon clean quite as much.  
  
\-----  
  
Muffled cheers and distant melodies hailed the beginnings of the _Victoire 1945,_ Guy having been awoken by it an hour early. Personally he'd minded it not at all, it had allowed him to say goodbye to his parents as they left early in the morning - they were visiting his maternal grandparents for a few hours, preferring to be somewhere quieter than Paris for most of the day. Normally he'd have been included, but as he was sixteen and quite old enough to be trusted with himself, and as he was yet young enough to find more enjoyment in roaming the city, he'd been allowed to stay behind and spend time with Thomas.  
  
It was twenty-three past nine now. Despite having awoken so early, Guy had lazed around for most of the morning; he was washed, but not quite dressed, and he hadn't had breakfast as a mutual agreement with Thomas that they'd go out to eat. (Well, he'd had a few pomegranate seeds to whet his appetite, but that didn't count.) No, at present he was engaged in something completely unrelated to all of that. His experience with Roulé on Friday had opened his eyes to a new perspective, he was sure. Guy used to value practicality over aesthetics at every opportunity, and was never really concerned with 'how things looked' or what kind of colours complimented each other. It was a miracle how he managed to have any kind of fashion sense, really. But in the past few days he'd developed some kind of fascination with colours as a whole, casually observing how things fitted together, from streetwise fashion to interior design to contemplating sliced cucumbers in the fridge. They'd been left over from making sandwiches earlier in the morning, and Guy was currently staring at them, remarking to himself how pretty they were. The deep grass-green of their skin complimenting the softer, fresher green of their centre, fading into an almost-translucent shade - ah, they were gorgeous.  
  
On a whim Guy took out the plate of cucumber slices and put it on the table. Immediately he thought better of it, and lifted it back up again. The pure porcelain white of the plate clashed against the red and black polka-dot tablecloth too vividly, and combined with the green of cucumber slices - it was a disaster! Best to keep them in the fridge, he decided, so he put them back where they belonged. Oh, he appreciated their existence and the fact that he could see them at any time, but everything had its own time and place.  
  
It was very important for him that those cucumbers were in the fridge. Regardless of how good something was, if it wasn't readily accessible, it was of no use to anyone. The moment he closed the fridge door and stood up, the phone rang from the hall, and he went to go and get it. He only knew a few people who could be calling at this time, and all of them would recognize his voice immediately. _"Allô, c'est Guy-Manuel."_  
  
" _Bonjour_ , I'm just about to head to yours," Thomas's warm, if somehow subdued voice came through the phone. He wasn't as energetic as usual, but what cheerfulness his voice did have seemed genuine, so Guy didn't worry about this overmuch - perhaps he was just tired. "what were you up to?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," Guy glanced towards the kitchen. "I was just watching the cucumbers."  
  
"... Watching the _what?_ "  
  
"The cucumbers. In the fridge. They looked so fresh, I just wanted to look at them for a while," a stunned silence followed this, so Guy hastily changed the topic, not wanting to come across as if he'd gone insane. "b-but anyway! When do you think you'll be here? In fifteen minutes maybe?"  
  
"Fifteen, twenty, thereabouts. Are your parents home?"  
  
" _Non._ I'll just get changed quick, then. The door's unlocked, let yourself in if I don't answer straight away."  
  
_"D'accord, à tout de suite."_  
  
Guy hung up the phone and rushed upstairs to get changed, having quite put the cucumbers out of his mind by then. His outfit was already laid out: a red checked shirt with a white sleeveless undershirt beneath it, all tucked neatly into blue jeans and combined with a belt, a silver chain bracelet around his wrist, and good walking shoes. It only took him a few minutes to change, and he briefly pondered upon taking a jacket - it didn't look as if he would need it, it being such a lovely day, but spring was fickle. But he wasn't afforded time for further reflection on this, as he heard a knock downstairs; "I'm coming!" he hollered as he hurtled down the stairs, the jacket draped on his arm. He was met with Thomas at the door, hands stuck in his pockets and giving him a vibrant smile. "that was faster than I thought, Thom."  
  
"Haven't got a minute to lose, have we?" the younger boy replied lightly as he stepped indoors, brushing his windswept hair back. Guy led him to the living room, and he took a seat on the sofa, leaning back and letting out a quiet noise of contentment. "that's better! You look really nice today, Guy."  
  
"Heh. I just need to tidy my hair, could you give me a minute?"  
  
"That and more. Go ahead."  
  
The older boy nodded and gave him a thumbs-up before quickly entering the bathroom. His hair had mostly dried by now, and it only took him a moment with the brush before it had settled slick and straight around his shoulders. When he came out of the bathroom and back towards the kitchen, he saw Thomas crouched on the floor by the open fridge, staring perplexedly at the cucumber slices within it. "Oh, what are you doing looking at _those_. I was just being silly on the phone."  
  
"Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo never does anything without a reason as far as I know," Thomas retorted playfully, but did close the fridge door the instant he heard Guy's voice, looking rather bashful. "I had to find out."  
  
"Mm. Do you think I need the jacket, what's the weather like?"  
  
Thomas looked down at the jacket over Guy's arm. He would have in all likelihood said something along the lines of how 'it couldn't hurt to take it', being well-organized and prepared for most things, but he took a deep breath and an odd look crossed his face. "... It's warm outside," he said, and shook his head distractedly. "where did you wear that thing last time, it smells... smells like _perfume_ , a _lot_ of perfume..."  
  
"What?" Guy ducked his head. Indeed the jacket had a fairly intense fragrance attached to it - but it wasn't just any old perfume, he recognized that much; no, it was _cologne_ , the fruity-sweet kind that Roulé used. But as far as he knew, he'd never worn this in the presence of the older man nor even in the Métro in the past few weeks-  
  
_Unless..._  
  
This was the same jacket that he'd worn in the _dream_. Roulé had definitely touched him then. Part of him was staunchly telling him that it couldn't be possible, but it was - it was _Roulé,_ that alone had to be self-explanatory, did that mean that he hadn't actually dreamt it all? "What," the older boy finally said, bewildered. "you don't like it or something?"  
  
"It's too... too _sweet_ for me, almost sour... It's like someone spilt several milliliters of the stuff on you. Sorry."  
  
"Then I'll leave it, no problem," Guy said, putting the jacket aside. On one hand he was slightly disappointed that he might not have lucid-dreamed, but on the other hand, the acceptance that he might have met Roulé 'in his own time' to make up for not having seen him on Sunday came so fast that he found himself more bemused at himself than anything. "then I'm ready, Thom, let's go."  
  
Doors were locked, checked twice over, and only then did they get to walking proper. "Want one?" Thomas offered him a pack of chewing gum, and Guy thanked him as he took one. It was a cool peppermint flavour, the younger boy's favourite flavour besides caramel. "where did you have in mind for breakfast, I'm starving."  
  
"That depends," Guy said, and blew a neat round bubble with his gum. "we can either go find a cafe with overpriced-but-healthy food, or we could be awful to ourselves and go to a KFC. Terrible, I know. So tell me! Where do _you_ fancy?"  
  
Thomas stopped in his tracks and looked at him blankly. Guy looked back at him just as blankly.  
They stood there for a long time, making the _Victoire_ crowd edge around them with varying shades of irritation. Above them waved tricolour banners, blue, white and red, as Paris birds sang sugar calls all around them.  
  
\-----  
  
"... And here are your drinks and change, your food'll be coming up shortly," Thomas took the change and passed it to Guy. They hardly ever split bills between them when they went out to eat, whether in a proper restaurant, cafe or a local KFC - one person paid for everything, then it would be the other paying _next_ time, and so on. Guy had offered to pay in exchange for Thomas placing the order in its entirety, not being a fan of fast-paced, over-the-counter verbal exchanges in general. The cashier glanced around to see how their order was coming up, then gave them a quick smile. "on a date?"  
  
Guy was actually used to people making this mistake - so much that he had ceased being embarrassed about it a _very_ long time ago, and took it more as something to laugh with Thomas about. "I'm not a girl and he's not my boyfriend," he spoke up cheerily as he pulled out two straws from the dispenser; the cashier blushed pink and quickly apologized. "it's all right, people say that all the time! I'll find a seat for us, Thom."  
  
He patted the other's shoulder, took up the drinks and then left, heading towards the far corner near the window where he usually liked to sit; he left behind an abashed Thomas and the cashier commenting that they seemed like firm friends if nothing else. ("Yeah," Guy might have heard Thomas say wistfully, had he stayed. "yeah... he's a good friend... but just a friend.") There were a few crumbs on the table that he brushed off in time for Thomas to come back with the tray. _"Ahh, merci."_  
  
Two pieces of chicken, fries, and a Coke each.  
Neither of them used ketchup. This was their usual meal whenever they went to a KFC, regardless of the time of day. It was filling enough.  
  
"So," Guy said as he delicately tore the paper package surrounding the fries, sprinkling a little salt on them. "where does Monsieur Bangalter want to go today?"  
  
The younger boy giggled slightly, brushing back a curl of blond hair. "Give me a break! It's so weird being called a Monsieur _anything_ , I can't believe that one day everyone's going to call me that-"  
  
"- I wouldn't, unless I felt particularly cruel-"  
  
"- please never do. I'm all for growing up, but I'm not for being... _labeled,_ you know? Or people being too formal with me. If you won't let me always be casual with you I might just curl up and die of a broken heart because I couldn't handle that."  
  
Guy snickered. " _Eat_ your breakfast, Thom. As unhealthy as it is. You never answered my question."  
  
"Right."  
  
There was a long pause between them as Thomas took him literally and indeed began to eat his breakfast, forgoing all conversation for it. He kept up the silence for almost five minutes before speaking up again. "I was thinking," he finally said after a long sip out of his Coke. "of going to Montmartre."  
  
"... What, really? To do what in, your dad's away, isn't he?"  
  
"He is! But no, I was thinking of the flea market. See, what I want to do is this: we always go and see what's up at school, so we could take the Line 2 to Villiers then all the way to Anvers before walking up. It's been a while since we've been out like this together, I want it to be _special_ \- see a few more places, just spend time with you... and if you come back to my house later, I'll make us both lunch. How does that sound?"  
  
"Near _outrageous_ , considering you're making this offer in front of perfectly good food," Guy laughed. "but irresistible! I like the sound of that. I suppose there's never any harm in looking around at a flea market, either, who knows what you'd find?"  
  
"So you're in."  
  
"Yes, I'm in."  
  
"Excellent," Thomas gave him a sunny smile, and then they were silent again as they began focusing on the view outside. Someone had discarded a paper bag from KFC out on the pavement and birds, pigeons and crows mainly, were flocking around it to try to get at whatever was inside; Thomas made a face and peeled off some the breaded coating from his chicken, pushing it aside. "I remember the first time I realized that some birds would eat anything. KFC helped me with that, actually. Dropped a piece on the ground and an entire _army_ of pigeons came and snatched it up. Nature was really hard for me to understand when I was six."  
  
"Rather cannibalistic," Guy said wryly, and they both laughed. "can't say I'm surprised, though. I'd be more surprised about pigeons _not_ trying to eat something, though I'm only saying that now."  
  
"I hear you, Guy," the paper cup in the younger boy's hand rattled as he shook it slightly; most of the Coke within had been drunk and they could only hear the wet clinking of ice inside it. "I hear you."  
  
They sat and gazed outside for a few more minutes, faintly amused at the battle between corvid and columbidae; when they left they cleared up their space, disposing of their trash in the large bins and wiping the table down with the rest of the napkins. Doubling back, they went down the steps of Porte Dauphine Station and wedged past the crowd to board the train - it was so busy that they could barely see a foot beyond them, but with their hands clasped they were in no danger of losing each other. Thomas's thumb stroked over the knuckle of Guy's index finger once, and the older boy had glanced back at him before looking away again - and lacing their fingers properly together.  
  
On the way they got off at Villiers and made a brief stop at their school, seeing the gates wide open and a few people (mostly other students out of uniform) milling around the monument within it. Technically the _Victoire 1945_ wasn't its time to shine, but poppies had been laid by it nonetheless along with a few more bouquets of flowers. For those stone-carved youths seventy years hence, it only made sense to emphasize at every given opportunity that oft-sworn and seldom-followed motto after a war: _never again._ Neither he nor Thomas ever did much around this memorial other than to watch and reflect for a while, and not necessarily on the First World War nor the commemorated fallen - no, they thought of how the monument seemed to gain exponential significance only on certain days of the year, when during normal schooldays it was simply considered to be part of the school's architecture. It was never treated with disrespect, but attention wasn't always being paid to it, either. Just an observation. That was all that was.  
  
(As they turned and left, Guy caught sight of Sebastian and his girlfriend laying down another wreath by the foot of the monument, and felt a slight warmth inside.  
They had managed to raise enough money after all.)  
  
\-----  
  
The French flag was everywhere, the weather was beautiful, the atmosphere was vibrant. Once in Montmartre and during their walk to the flea market, they came across a military band at attention, then a baker giving out free samples of pastries and cookies in the name of celebration, to name just a couple of things that they saw - Thomas took an eighth of chocolate meringue while Guy took a petit-four. It wasn't an opportunity often exercised but they made a fantastic duo when it came to food shopping - Guy was better at gauging the weight and freshness of fruits and vegetables, and Thomas was good at searching for the best deals as he cooked so often and in large amounts. "Here, could you hold those two for me and tell me which feels heavier?"  
  
Guy held his hands out and took the bell peppers in hand, gazing into air and frowning delicately. "... This one," he said, giving back the one on the right. "are these for the sauce or something else?"  
  
"Stuffed peppers, for tomorrow. But that's a good question, do you want something like an alfredo sauce, or tomato-based...?"  
  
"Tomato."  
  
"Then we're in luck, we've got all the tomatoes that we need back home. Good one, Guy. Though I would have made you _anything_ you wanted," Thomas laughed, nudged him on the shoulder and walked past before the older boy could give a reply. He also selected a large onion, some basil and several cloves of garlic before taking them all to the counter, taking back the whole bunch in a plastic bag before rejoining Guy. "that's everything I need for now. What now, _un café? Un chocolat?_ "  
  
"Shouldn't. Need to save up for the spaghetti later."  
  
Thomas concurred, looking flattered at the thought. They did a quick customary search of the place for anything else of interest, but found very little besides; it wasn't the best day for rare records and tapes, that was all that was. There wasn't much they could do about it. (Guy did have to pry Thomas away from a rare pressing of a Pink Floyd album, on account of it being too expensive, and he only did so very reluctantly, himself.) Really, all of this was more an excuse to be with each other than anything. Today there was none of the moroseness that Guy had seen in Thomas a mere few days ago, replaced with a youthful love for life, his best friend and his eternal city, softening the contours of his face and imprinted upon his lips in a smile.  
  
He was cute. Even Guy had to admit it, although it was purely in an aesthetic sense. He was more than cute, he was adorable.  
  
When they left the flea market, they were briefly detoured by a small parade passing through; to avoid being in their way they headed further up towards the famed artists' square of Montmartre, deciding to wait until they passed. A few steps away from them Guy caught sight of a wiry middle-aged street artist working on the portrait of a young Asian woman, with a man who looked like her husband sitting close by "To the left, Madame! To the left, _s'il-vous plait. Très bien_."  
  
She did as asked, though she never said a thing. Her hair was a rich brown, gleaming chestnut under the well-lighted sky, catching sunbeams that glanced off her long eyelashes and the contours of her face. Her hair was just about as long as Guy's own and of the texture that he himself could only dream of, although there wasn't much, if any other thing at all, that they had in common. The artist paused only to shoo away a jackdaw that had been trying to perch atop the canvas, but aside from that he worked with intense speed with only the occasional instructions for the lady to stay still. His movements were so quick and almost careless when considering only the individual strokes, but brought together and tied by the woman's beauty they made an exquisite picture. Unlike he and Thomas he didn't consider art as something to overcome or challenge, nor even a _friend_ \- that would have implied the independent existence of art apart from himself, and that wasn't what was happening. The way Guy looked at it, the artist had long since become one with his vision, his pencil, eraser, pastels and canvas an organic extension of his self rather than instruments to do his bidding. A long, elegant line shaped her neck; a flick of the eraser added a glint to her silver-opal necklace; the broadest smudge of the pastel gave colour to her hair.  
  
_Now that's how you draw someone._  
  
The parade had passed by, confetti and cheers trailing behind them. A swoop of pigeons settled where they had left. They were free to cross over and be on their way, but they lingered, he and Thomas both - the latter was busy watching after the parade, deep in his own thoughts, while Guy kept on looking towards the artist and the lady in front of him. He thought how good of a memory this must be for her, being in Paris on one of the most authentically French days of the year, blessed both with natural beauty and a flattering artist. It was overly nosy of him, perhaps, but Guy couldn't help but wonder all manner of things as Thomas touched his shoulder, asking him if he wanted to go. (He stayed far enough away that he didn't think that he was being disruptive.) The couple looked as if they had come a long way and the portrait was large; how would they store it, did they have much further to go in their journeys, or were appearances deceiving and did they live close by after all? Where would they hang it up, who was it for? For the woman herself?  
  
"... Guy?"  
  
"Sorry," he said, startled out of his reverie, and patted the other's wrist. "just thinking, was all. Let's go," then he began to head down the street with Thomas following, scattering the plump grey pigeons around them as they walked. Even so he kept on dwelling on the picture, his mind having wandered to what the artist himself was thinking of his newest piece. Being a street artist, he must be doing this day in and out, multiple times in a single day, suspending the bustling Parisian life by sitting down and sketching a different model each time. He made them to sell, though, surely that meant that he couldn't attach himself as much as Guy had initially thought to his own creations - _she_ , that lady, would surely think of that portrait - rightfully appreciate it, more than he ever would.  
  
_Immortalize me._ He thought back to Roulé's demands. (He hadn't imagined that he would end up at Montmartre again, he just couldn't seem to stay away.) A sketch of a model was exactly that, depicting an external model as existing in artificial space, allowing them and the artist both to look at them from a third-person angle. It struck him then how often people remained unaware of _how they looked_ , being gifted only with a first-person view, all-seeing except for their very own selves which they'd have to see through poorer quality reflections or external accounts. A drawing of themselves, therefore, was a thing to be much prized; put that way, Roulé asking to be 'immortalized' didn't seem quite as dramatic any more. With that he also decided not to hand the sketches of Roulé as his art assignment; that wouldn't do the older man justice. He'd done it on the other's request, the drawings really belonged to him.  
  
"You're being very quiet," Thomas spoke up softly, nudging his hand with his own. Guy didn't immediately grasp it. "penny for your thoughts?"  
  
Sure, he'd have to start all over again for the assignment, but he and Thomas had kind of agreed on that a while back anyway. "Not worth that much, I was just trying to figure out how to word it. You haven't done that art assignment, have you?"  
  
"The one next Monday? _Non_."  
  
"When we get to your place, do you think that's a good time to get that done? And can I draw you?"  
  
Thomas beamed. " _Mais bien sûr, Guy, bien sûr!_ I asked you first, didn't I? It's-" he looked down at his watch. "- just gone twenty past one, we've got plenty of time. What do you say to buying a rose or two before we get to the Bois de Boulogne, show some respect."  
  
This was entirely agreeable to Guy. On the way back to Anvers Station they found a flower stall and did exactly that, Thomas buying a tightly-budded pink rose and Guy a red one in full bloom; then they entered the station and caught the train back to Porte Dauphine, leaning heavily against the support railings and resting their feet as best as they could. They still had a bit more walking to do. Fortunately the Bois de Boulogne was directly adjacent to the station so they ventured straight in, the heavy shadows and the fresh, herbaceous air striking them almost as soon as they left the bustling roads behind. There were still many people in the park, but overall it remained far quieter than anywhere else they'd been that day.  
  
The two boys could have easily spent another hour or two gazing out at the lake, or letting themselves get lost following the pebble-scattered roads in random directions as they had done often before. And they were tempted, they truly were. It just wasn't the time for that today. They walked in silence until the pale-white of the monument came into sight, a bold Cross of Loraine carved onto it.  
  
"Well, here we are."  
  
Neither he nor Thomas knew exactly why they observed this ritual; both their families had visited this monument even before they'd gotten to know each other, and the first year of their friendship, they'd all gone together as if they'd always done so. All they knew was that they'd keep doing it for as long as they were able. A shudder of apprehension ran through Guy's body, almost as though he were cold, but there was fire in his blood as he he knelt and placed his rose beneath the marble-carved inscription. Thomas did the same next to him, overlapping the stems of his own rose with Guy's, and they stood up, suddenly quiet as they gazed upon the monument - bizarre, truly, they came here every year and more, they'd never had occasion to feel this way during all of the other times. None of their relatives were being commemorated in this monument, they were not the most knowledgeable about its reason for existing nor even the war as a whole; what they felt wasn't so much a _personal_ connection, rather that of _machination_ , of themselves being connected to each other, those martyrs, the history of the world over time.  
  
"... Huh," Guy said out loud. Their eyes fell upon the oak tree adjacent to the monument, riddled with bullet holes a half-century old, a new French flag wrapped around its trunk and above the familiar inscription: _Passants, respectez ce chêne: il porte les traces des balles qui ont tué nos martyrs._  
  
"I am," Thomas murmured solemnly, though Guy walked past, looking all around him. "I am," then the younger boy felt a firm nudge on his leg and looked down - to see the softest, loveliest ginger tabby cat with green eyes nuzzling against him. All seriousness drained out of him at the sight, and he immediately dropped to his knees with a huge grin on his face, reaching out to stroke the cat with both hands. " _oh, oh! Oh, Guy, c'est si mignon!"_  
  
"Hmm?" but when Guy turned around, he didn't see anything special; only the sight of Thomas kneeling with his back turned to him, fussing over something, and then backing away. He heard only the faint rustle of the grass as something darted away, but nothing else. "what was cute, what did I miss?"  
  
Thomas straightened up, dusting his hands. "A cat! It was really friendly, I think it got spooked, though..."  
  
"Oh, that's a shame, I'd have liked to pet it, too," Guy waited until Thomas had joined his side again, and they both sat down at the foot of the monument. Come August, there would be a ceremony held close by to commemorate the monument's actual occasion, but some others had come by anyway to lay down flowers and folded flags by its foot. Other than that, it was nice and quiet. "being near those monuments always make me feel odd. Cemeteries, too. But not in a bad way, if you get what I mean? Thinking of all those brave people, some of them not much older than us."  
  
"I feel that, Guy. I never knew them, but just the idea of them being so young, that makes me feel connected to them. It's hard to explain. It's one of things that seems to make sense as I get older."  
  
"It's the same here," Guy stretched his legs out and shielded his eyes from the sun briefly. "hmm. About that last thing. Reminds me of the first person who I saw dead, actually."  
  
"Who _was_ the first person you saw dead? One of your relatives?"  
  
"Hell no. _Jean-Paul Sartre._ "  
  
Thomas raised his eyebrows in disbelief. " _Des clous!_ What were you doing there?"  
  
"I don't know if me being _there_ is the right way to put it, Thom. I was _watching,_ I was with Maman when the procession passed by, I know that," Guy frowned into the distance as if he could still recall that day (so long ago) when he'd seen the funeral procession. "... but I don't remember it much. And I most certainly didn't know back then that it was _Sartre_. I didn't know anything about Sartre back then, because, you know, I was six years old. But for a couple of years after watching that I had this image in my mind that that was what death was like, this kind of distant thing, some grand event that people either celebrated or cried over and made a real spectacle out of," his eyes were fixed at the far end of the road. "and... I don't know, I guess when I was really little I was all right with that, that death was pretty _cool_ , somehow. Then I got older and realized that actually no, death is terrifying and often messy and unwanted, but at the same time everyone has to face up to it. That real life funerals don't usually make thousands of people turn up, and that sometimes there are no people to grieve for you at all, and that you just end up unceremoniously in the ground or scattered to the winds or whatever. Not cool in the slightest, but _common_."  
  
Thomas shivered. " _Christ._ What a bedtime story, Guy-Manuel."  
  
"Hey, it was going to happen at some point. Have you never stayed awake at night thinking about your own death? Might as well get Sartre to help out, never mind that I didn't know much about him until last year. That's kind of what philosophers _do,_ help you come to terms with things."  
  
"You'd think he'd be allowed a rest from that now, Guy, what with him being dead."  
  
Guy looked at him sideways. Then he chuckled, leaning against the other's shoulder slightly. "Yeah," he said quietly, feeling Thomas's arm automatically wrap around his shoulder to support him. "... you'd think being dead would free you from the problems of the world, wouldn't you."  
  
There was silence for a while. A butterfly flew past them and settled on the roses they'd put by the monument, the pink one then the red.  
"What do you say to going home now." Thomas was the first to speak up. "and getting started on that spaghetti? The sauce takes at least an hour to simmer, we'd be hungry by then."  
  
"Sounds good to me," Guy nodded. They stood up, dusted their knees, and left the area hand in hand. "let me get my sketchbook first, though?"  
  
"All right."  
  
Going home was no effort at all. It was almost like walking back with Thomas from school all over again; evidently the younger boy too felt similarly, judging by the grin on his face. They stopped by at Guy's house first. " _Attends-moi?_ " he asked briskly when the front door came into view, and upon receiving the other's ' _oui'_ he sprinted forwards and unlocked the door, hurtling upstairs as fast he could. His sketchbook was on the desk and he snatched it up, flicking through it and wondering whether he ought to pull out the pages with Roulé drawn upon them - but he hadn't the time, he didn't want to risk tearing his sketches. He'd cut them free when he got home later in the evening. Confident in that, he took up his satchel, shook out everything but his pencilcase, and put the sketchbook in that before coming back downstairs. "let's go!"  
  
The door was locked again; they were all the way down the street when the sudden rain came. Guy looked up at the sky, blankly frowning, while Thomas shivered and leaned in close to him. "Oh, that's just _great_ ," the younger boy complained. "I really wish you still had your umbrella, Guy, haven't you replaced it yet?"  
  
"I keep forgetting! And the weather's so warm that I never think of buying one until it's too late," the older boy glanced back at his house, but decided against it. "... might as well carry on, it's not far. I can towel off at yours, right?"  
  
"Sure you can, although it's not as if you have much of a choice."  
  
Guy chuckled; their mood restored, they crossed the road, walked down a little further and turned left to the main street. The _Marseillaise_ was being played in the distance, and the passersby were audibly humming or singing to it. "I can't get used to our own anthem, that's not weird, right? I mean, where else do we regularly get to sing about unspeakable acts of violence and are happy about it?"  
  
"Agreed, but the tune, Thomas, the _tune_ sure is catchy. _Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé..."_ Guy sang along quietly with the crowd, trailing off into a light hum as they approached the traffic lights. "... _contre_ \- mm-hmm-hm... whoa, _careful,_ Thom!" he exclaimed, extending his arm to prevent the younger boy from walking straight across. "oh, I hate the lights here. Stays on for all of fifteen seconds, yeah, like that's enough time for anyone to cross over."  
  
" _I_ can make it! Just about."  
  
"Yes, but _you're all legs_. How is that a _fair_ comparison, Bangalter," but Guy meant it entirely in jest, as evidenced when he followed this up immediately with a soft nudge on the other's shoulder. "not that having long legs is a bad thing. You're definitely going to turn out nice and tall, nothing wrong about that."  
  
Thomas looked down. His cheeks were pink. "I feel sort of awkward about it," he said softly, twiddling his fingers; they too were long and lithe, true pianist fingers as Daniel Vangarde was fond of calling them, just like the rest of him. "that it's not really... _my body_ doing those things and growing beyond what I'm prepared to handle. I know it's normal, strictly speaking, but it's happening so fast."  
  
"Better to get it over and done with, rather than waiting too long for it to come or having it never happen," for a moment Guy was reminded of his own non-sexual self and a forlorn note entered his voice, but he shook it off so fast that Thomas didn't notice. "oh, we can cross! _Aux armes, citoyens_ \- you're fine, Thom, you always have been - _vos bataillons_..."  
  
Their hands were linked together, Guy leading him forwards (and rapidly so) to try to reach the other side before the light changed back to red. "You're awful, Guy, I can't take you the slightest bit seriously when you're trying to talk alongside the _Marseillaise_ ," the younger boy was complaining; but not even he could stop humming the anthem, a dimpled grin on his face as they hurried across the road and towards where it would be nice and warm. "... _marchons, marchons... qu'un sang impur - abreuve nos sillons!_ "  
  
\-----  
  
Thomas's house was empty when they finally arrived.  
"I'm _drenched_ ," Guy exclaimed almost as soon as he was inside. Thomas kicked his shoes off and ran ahead of him, into the kitchen. "forget a towel, Thom, I think I'm going to need a _shower_... actually dry off properly - are you listening?"  
  
"Mm-hmm..."  
  
Guy put his shoes aside, placed Thomas's alongside his, and followed him in. On the way he cast a quick glance at the living room - clean and _with no cracks in the walls, thank God_ \- and peered in through the doorway of the kitchen just as Thomas popped back into view, carrying a huge aluminum cooking pot. It was so big that Thomas himself looked almost dwarfed by it; atop the lid he had set a pasta cookbook and five large tomatoes, making for a comical but endearing sight as he heaved the pot onto the stove and puffed out a breath. "Whew," he sighed, rubbed his forehead, and turned to Guy. "what was that you were saying? Shower?"  
  
"I'd rather not be put to paper looking like this."  
  
"I wouldn't have minded, Guy. It's not like I'd actually have _preserved_ you in your soaking wet glory, but I get you. Hairdryer's in my room."  
  
" _Merci._ You sure you don't need any help?"  
  
Thomas shook his head, small drops of water flecking his shirt as he did so. His hair was shorter, though, and he was nowhere near as soaked as Guy was - he would dry off in no time. Content with this knowledge, Guy went upstairs and stopped by Thomas's room to fetch the hairdryer, then entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him. By the time he came back downstairs, Thomas would have the best pasta sauce that he knew how to make simmering away on the stove; given some time he could probably replicate almost any sauce known to man, he truly had a master touch. Guy smiled as he thought of him working, fine particles of garlic, onion, paprika and olive oil swirling together in the pot, forming a harmonious cloud that penetrated every corner of the kitchen and the area beyond; he took off his checked shirt and left it to dry over the radiator (along with a towel), stripped out of the rest of his clothes, folded them up, put them aside, then stepped into the shower with that pleasant thought in mind. As he was closing the door he caught sight of the sink, a small blue handheld razor set atop it next to what looked like a very new can of shaving cream.  
  
_Ah._  
  
Thomas's father used an electric shaver, he knew that much, and it was kept in the bedroom with its charger. Those items could only belong to Thomas.  
Guy wasn't sure whether to feel more amused or down about that. He touched his own cheek, reaching up nonchalantly to turn the shower on; as soft and smooth as the skin of a peach, with not even the beginnings of stubble. Then the showerhead blasted cold water onto his face (with full strength) and for a while he was too busy being distraught to muse upon that fact.  
  
Once he was warmed back up and well into shampooing his hair, though, Guy allowed himself to dwell back on it a little. He and Thomas were sixteen and fifteen respectively, hardly the pinnacle of adulthood - _far from it_ \- but when he felt undeveloped even compared to _Thomas_ , he couldn't help but wonder if there really was something wrong with him. He knew that he had no true cause to worry for a good couple of years yet, knowing that he might simply be a late bloomer ('and there's nothing wrong with that!', he murmured as he ran his fingers through his hair) but logic couldn't deny him his unease. It was silly to get hung up on such things-  
  
_Yeah, I know... but I'm surrounded by people who look miles more mature than me, all the time, and..._  
  
Some of the shampoo got in his eyes and he blinked it out rapidly. Letting out a long sigh, he opened his eyes back up and gazed blearily at the ceiling, letting the water rinse the foam off his body.  
  
_... that's kind of..._  
  
He smelled of peppermint all over. It was as good a scent as any. Guy picked up the shower gel and scrutinized the label for the sake of trying to distract himself.  
  
_... discouraging._  
  
It worked, somewhat. He wasn't pleased with having felt strange and childish, but he managed to suspend all related thoughts precisely at that point, and decided not to worry any further. _How long have I been here, ten minutes? Fifteen?_ Guy looked around and wiped some steam off the surrounding glass, peering out at his shirt on the radiator. There was no way that would have dried enough for him to wear again.  
  
"Hmph," he sighed again, but dutifully turned off the water and stepped out. It wasn't good form to stay any longer than this. After toweling himself dry, he wrapped it around his waist and perched on the edge of the bathtub to dry his hair, more mindful of it than he usually was. He would usually air-dry his hair, not giving much thought to its parting nor even brushing it very thoroughly, but lately that had changed under the influence of Roulé. By the time he was done his hair felt almost too light around his shoulders to be real, too soft against his face, but it was by no means unpleasant. Satisfied, he tossed the towel in the laundry and went back downstairs in his trousers and undershirt.  
  
He found Thomas still in the kitchen, washing up the last of the dishes and stacking them on the drying rack; the aforementioned pot was now half filled with a slow-bubbling, succulent ragu. When Thomas saw him he did a quick double take, his cheeks rather pink from the heat of the kitchen (and something more, though he wouldn't have admitted it for anything). "That looks amazing, Thom. An hour, you said?"  
  
"... Mm..." Thomas swiped the last plate clean with the sponge and put it behind everything else in the drying rack. Then he went to check up on the ragu, looking oddly flustered, stirring it a few times with the ladle and looking up. "taste?"  
  
This was a new one. Thomas was very fussy about his cooking and would very seldom let anyone taste something that wasn't technically done. "Everything _was_ cooked all the way through, right?" the younger boy nodded. Reassured, Guy took the ladle and sipped from its edge, letting out a blissful 'mmm' as the taste of rich sun-dried tomato and paprika worked their charm. " _oh, très bon, Thomas, très, très bon_ ," he nigh-moaned, going back for more. Normally the younger boy would have stopped him, fussing at him to 'leave the poor thing alone _for God's sake_ ', but Guy didn't notice that Thomas was too busy blushing furiously from the compliment to do so. (Nor did Guy notice Thomas leaning in slowly, his eyes sliding shut as he inhaled the scent of his hair.) "forget the drawings, I could probably eat all of this and a half right now, honest to God."  
  
"You smell nice... all _minty_..."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"Yes, you _could_ in theory, but the point is that I wouldn't _let_ you," Thomas changed the subject swiftly and smoothly as if he'd never said anything, carefully batting the other's arm away from the pot. " _shoo!_ Leave it alone, Guy. _Sketches_. We need them out of the way. Ten minutes for each pose and we'll be done on time, that sound fair?"  
  
_Huh. Reasonable. We can't all be like Roulé, God, I had him stuck in position for over half an hour with each sketch..._  
  
" _D'accord._ Do you want to model first or shall I?"  
  
"You go first. Maman's got a ten-minute hourglass, that's really convenient, actually - hang on, let me go and get it."  
  
Thomas checked the stove one last time and ran upstairs while Guy carried a spare chair to the living room. Thomas's own sketchbook was set on the sofa, so he assumed that that was where the boy would be sitting, and positioned the chair accordingly. "Back or front first, Thom?" he hollered.  
  
" _Quoi_ \- what?" the boy jumped down the last couple of stairs and burst into the living room with hourglass in hand. "... oh, your _posture!_ I don't mind."  
  
The older boy nodded and turned the chair to its side, sitting on it sideways so that he could both lean against the back of the chair and show his back to Thomas. He knew he slouched easily, so began reciting an inner mantra to keep his back straight and still as much as possible, only communicating with small inclines of his head even as the other asked him whether he was ready and whether he could start. Soon he could hear only the scratches of the pencil, muffled noises from the outside and the (almost too-faint-to-hear) bubbling of the pot in the kitchen to keep his thoughts company, and felt his body begin to relax at last.  
  
It was a shame that it had to be _now_ , however.  
He'd never had occasion to practice sitting like a statue for so long; Roulé had made it look easy, but it was actually _really hard_ trying to model for someone. It was only then did he understand why this was a feasible means of earning a living for some people. With nothing much interesting to stare at, it only made it harder. Somehow he made it through the entire ten minutes and got to turn around finally, and inwardly rejoiced at coming face to face with Thomas again, though he did try to avoid eye contact as Roulé had taught him that he ought to do; he didn't want to distract him. Because of this, Guy didn't catch the younger boy giving him the occasional smile and an admiring glance or two as his eyes roamed over the other's chest.  
  
Though at the same time, it wasn't as if Guy would have _understood_ the meaning behind those gestures. That wouldn't come until later.  
  
_"... Ta bouche."_  
  
_"Hein?"_  
  
"Your... mouth," Thomas mumbled slightly, shifting positions to balance the sketchbook on his lap. "it's about the only thing that's _not_ giving me trouble drawing," he hesitated there, sketched a couple more lines, and leaned in briefly to get a better look at Guy. "... I like it..."  
  
Guy would have continued the conversation, finding it just the right shade of intriguing, but Thomas wouldn't continue further. He simply lowered his head back to the drawing, biting his lip slightly and resting his chin on one hand as he considered how to go about the rest; it wouldn't have been polite to interrupt, so he didn't, and kept as still as he reasonably could until the last few grains of sand in the hourglass had fallen to the bottom. "That's it for me," he spoke up, and moved out of position, much to the chagrin of Thomas who hadn't quite finished. "your turn."  
  
" _Mon Dieu,_ you couldn't have _waited?_ " Thomas huffed, but dutifully improvised the last few lines, putting down his pencil afterwards and showing Guy the two pages. The younger boy was a much more fluid, gentler artist than he, but he saw far too much that he thought that he _ought_ to be drawing, and often ended up with hastily scribbled outlines that wouldn't be defined until later on; if Guy was criticized for being too stiff and formal, the younger boy was criticized for being too indecisive. But even taking into account all of those flaws, Guy was pleased with how he'd turned out. "well?"  
  
The older boy smirked and tapped at the right-hand page. "For someone who was complaining about me giving you trouble, you've sure given me a lot of detail. I like how you put in the bracelets."  
  
It wasn't just the bracelets, either. Guy wouldn't recognize it until some weeks later, when their sketches were returned (they would get an identical, good grade, and laugh about it) and he had the chance to look at them again - but Thomas had put a great deal of effort into his expression, his arms and back especially, highlighting the lean teenage muscles beneath them with a firm but loving hand. Though he didn't quite see this at this moment, Thomas was glad enough with the other's approval, and swapped places with Guy as the older boy took up his sketchbook and pencils.  
  
"You don't _need_ to keep your hands on your lap, Thom. That looks kind of uncomfortable."  
  
" _Au contraire,_ I'd much rather stay like this," the younger boy said, sitting a little awkwardly and stiff-backed on the chair - before he thought better of it. "... actually, can you draw me from the back first? I guess I'm just... _nervous_."  
  
Guy shrugged and took hold of the hourglass. "Suit yourself. _Un - deux - trois-_ "  
  
And they were off. He was immensely glad for having practiced with Roulé a few days before, for it allowed him to obtain a mental picture of his sketch far earlier than he otherwise would have. This didn't mean much in regard to whether he could work quickly, but he tried his best and fortune was with him that day. It helped that Thomas had better posture than he, saving him from having to draw him at a slouched angle. (Something to improve about himself, he thought.) He fidgeted more than Guy did, but with his back turned it wasn't as much trouble.  
  
"I'm done. Turn around, _s'il-te plaît_."  
  
Thomas did. He looked much more relaxed this time, what looked like relief gleaming in his eyes. When it came to Thomas's face he paid close attention to his features just as the other had done - his mischievous brown eyes, his mouth like Cupid's bow, juvenile eros. He felt better about preserving every detail and drawing his eyes in, quite unlike what he'd felt with Roulé, and it was entirely because Thomas was imperfect. He didn't mean that badly, oh no; he was thinking in terms of natural imperfections, which the younger boy visibly had a few of, but because of that he felt much more _real_ to Guy than Roulé ever managed to be. Thomas actually _had_ a scent, warm and pleasant; he actually moved now and then, his eyes would flicker elsewhere at various points, he was very clearly alive. His lack of stillness did interrupt the artistic process somewhat - when it came to a strictly-aesthetic exchange, Roulé was miles above anyone he could think of - but Guy didn't mind.  
  
That was at the core of it, really. That _he didn't mind._  
Soon the final grain of sand fell to the bottom and he placed his pencil down, turning his sketchbook around for Thomas to see. " _Wow,_ " the younger boy breathed, gazing at them with pleased wonder. "is that what I look like? Have you been practicing art recently, Guy, they turned out really nice."  
  
The older boy smiled. "... You could say that, Thom. You could say that."  
  
At least fifty minutes had passed by this point, likely a little more, taking into account the time they'd spent in getting set up and switching positions. Thomas returned to the kitchen to check on the ragu, and after a taste proclaimed it ready; he had freshly-made pasta in the fridge from the day before, and set to boiling it quickly as he further turned the heat down on the pot. During that time Guy put the chair and pencils back in their proper place, stacked their sketchbooks on the sofa and went upstairs to fetch his now-dry shirt. It felt a little stiffer than before, and was slightly creased, but it would have to do. When he came back downstairs Thomas had already set the table; he glanced at Guy and the older boy could have sworn that he looked a little disappointed, but he dismissed it as a trick of the eye. "Need help?"  
  
" _Non, non,_ I've got this."  
  
Soon in the middle of this arrangement Thomas set down a small tray of baguette slices and a bowl heaped with lettuce and cucumber salad, fresh and green and crisp. "Sit down, Guy," he grinned, cheeks pink from the heat; Guy did so, but only after setting the glasses down in their places as per etiquette. It was only proper that he contributed to something. He took up the water jug and poured some in Thomas's glass first, filling his own after, and leaned back comfortably in his chair as the younger boy finally brought the plates of spaghetti forth and set them down.  
  
_"Alors, mon ami,"_ he grinned, stretched triumphantly - and raised his glass. _"bon appetit!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I needed to cut this chapter in half oh my god.  
> So yeah I've basically thrown a filler chapter at you guys; at least it's full of incredibly sweet Thomas goodness? He's been neglected for the past few chapters, I only thought it right to give him all the attention this time!
> 
> Also I guess it's not the most relevant thing in the entire fic, but that bit about Jean-Paul Sartre - he died in 1980, and his funeral procession was followed by thousands of people through Paris. We're talking up to 50,000 people here, it was a huge event. I can't get over the fact that Guy and Thomas were alive contemporarily with _Jean-Paul freaking Sartre himself_ and that they were in Paris when he died and that they might have actually seen his funeral, though they'd most certainly have been too young to remember it. Philosophy is compulsory in France school curriculums, they'd have been taught about him almost certainly, too! That's a really minor thing - after all, lots of famous people exist, often very close to you, and people die all the time - but honest to God this is concentrated mindfuck for me. 
> 
> * You do not want to know what the phrase Guy read on Roulé's wall was. XD  
> * The description of salt's usefulness in baking is accurate as far as I know. Don't leave out your salt. There are other reasons why I wrote it in, but for now this is fine too.  
> * It is necessary that I describe the time period of the two memorials. The [memorial in Lycée Carnot](http://www.monumentsauxmorts.fr/cariboost1/crbst_paris-_28lyc_c3_a9e-carnot_29.jpg) was erected in 1921, so it's a WWI monument; the [one in Bois de Boulogne](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a5/Fusill%C3%A9s_de_la_cascade_du_Bois_de_Boulogne.jpg) commemorates an incident that occurred on the 16th of August 1944, on the eve of the Liberation of Paris, so it's a WWII monument. The descriptions I've put of them are accurate, as the pictures I've linked would show. The inscription I put in for the Bois de Boulogne monument is also authentic; it's on [this tree here](http://lot.pcf.fr/sites/default/files/imagecache/image/lieux_panneau500.jpg), it translates to _'Those who walk past, observe this oak: it bears the marks of the bullets that killed our martyrs'._  
>  * Montmartre is indeed host to a famous flea market and artists' square, and the Bois de Boulogne is right next to Porte Dauphine Station.  
> * The rare Pink Floyd record I had in mind is the 'Piper at the Gates of Dawn', 3rd issue, French pressing on Columbia Records. It's not the rarest by far but it seemed too damned expensive for a fifteen year old to pay for right there and then anyway ._.  
> * Behold [La Marseillaise](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Marseillaise#Lyrics), one of the most terrifying national anthems set to a catchy tune to have ever existed.  
> * Remember that bit in _La Chanson_ about Guy 'losing his shirt' with alarming frequency? Yeah. For God's sake Guy _keep it together_  
>  * Yes, Thomas is adjusting the sketchbook on his lap and being awkward for a reason <3


	7. Entgegen

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 07) - _'Entgegen'_**

\------------------

"Do you really have to go?"  
  
"I don't have a choice, do I?" Guy chuckled wryly, and got up from the table. It was nearly five o'clock and he needed to be back home soon; some of the rooms needed cleaning and he would eventually be expected to help with dinner, regardless of how late it would be. "thank you for the spaghetti, it was delicious. One of the finest ones I've ever had."  
  
Thomas grinned with pleasure, and he too followed suit, standing and picking up the plates that they'd stacked and put aside earlier. Guy helped out by wiping down the table and clearing out the tray and glasses, and they left the dishes to soak for a while. It said something significant about their relationship that they had done almost nothing (aside from talking) since they'd sat down, and they'd still come out of it feeling as if time had passed too _fast_ for their liking. Guy felt that way, certainly. The spaghetti had been just on the softer side of al dente, exactly how he liked it - Thomas preferred it even softer, but he'd adjusted his tastes to match Guy's for that meal - they'd both eaten exactly the right amount, and everything had been perfect. Once or twice their feet had brushed underneath the table, and Guy had apologized and withdrawn every time, thinking that Thomas wouldn't like it.  
  
It never struck him as odd, the amount of physical contact being attempted by the younger boy towards him, exactly like how it _never_ had before.  
Someone more perceptive in those matters would have picked up on the discrepancy by this point, almost certainly, but Guy wasn't that someone. Not yet, not for a while. When everything was cleaned, Thomas stood on his tiptoes to fetch a wineglass from a high shelf, placing it on the counter and nodding for Guy to come closer. "I know you're probably going to do this later anyway, at dinner. I am, for sure," he winked at Guy as he pulled out a champagne bottle from the depths of another cupboard. "Papa opened this yesterday and I really _shouldn't_ \- but just for the sake of this I _will_ ," he said, pouring some of the sweet, bubbly liquid into the glass a third full.  
  
"Oh. _Oh._ I see. Where are the biscuits?"  
  
"Right here," Thomas pulled out a tin, opened it and slipped out two pink, sugary biscuits. This was how they preferred to close off patriotic holidays or just occasions on which the two families came together, with a box of _biscuit rose de Reims_ being passed around and dunked in champagne to bring out its flavours. (Neither of them had all that much of a relation to Reims or its history, they just liked the biscuits.) "one for you, and for me."  
  
 _"Merci."_  
  
"I'll miss you when you go," Thomas said quietly. "but I had a good day, Guy. I can feel it, I'm going to sleep well tonight," his expression wavered there, just slightly, but Guy managed to catch it. "... I really hope so, anyway."  
  
"What, as opposed to all _other_ nights?"  
  
"No, I..." he'd picked up on the right hints. Thomas stumbled upon his words, trying to sound reassuring but failing, before he just gave up and decided to come clean. "if I'm honest with you... I guess, well, to say that I haven't been sleeping well is kind of an understatement..."  
  
"Have you had more nightmares?"  
  
"Oh, you remembered," the younger boy leaned against him and laughed, but it was a rather sad one. "mmm, I have... don't worry about me, though, I manage okay after I wake up. When I woke up last night my nightlight was broken, but I'll probably sleep with the light on, no big deal."  
  
Guy almost inquired after the contents of those dreams again, but decided not to after seeing the look on the other's face. Instead, he chose to drop the topic as gracefully as he could, taking his biscuit and dipping half of it in the champagne - before offering the soaked half out to Thomas, who blinked at him, looking startled. "Open," he said gently. The younger boy stared at him wide-eyed for a second, almost turning as pink as the biscuit held in Guy's hand, before leaning forwards and gently biting into it. He only took the half with the champagne; while Thomas pulled away and chewed it carefully, Guy dipped the remainder and popped it into his mouth, letting out an 'mm' at the taste.  
  
"There," he smiled. "now we've shared."  
  
Furious red streaked against the younger boy's cheeks at that, but faded away just as quickly as it had come. "... You're _awful_ ," Thomas complained, but he only sounded half annoyed, if at all. It certainly lightened the mood between them, at least for a few minutes, and it didn't stop him from reciprocating what Guy had done and feeding him his half of the biscuit as well. "do you want to finish the champagne or shall I?"  
  
"You finish it. Don't want to go outside all red in the face," Guy said; he'd had plenty of wine and champagne whilst with Roulé, but not often or in quantities enough to have built up a tolerance. Besides, some wines made him blush far more than others, and he wasn't going to risk it right now. Thomas nodded agreeably and raised what was left of the champagne to his mouth, draining the glass in small sips. "thanks, again. Can I use your bathroom before I leave?"  
  
"Mm, go ahead."  
  
There were no mirrors on the ground floor of Thomas's house. Guy went upstairs and leaned into the bathroom, brushing his hair back and checking that he looked presentable; the hairdryer from Thomas's room was still there, so he picked it up and put it back where it belonged while he was at it, too. "All right, Thom, I'm off," he hollered as he quickly descended the stairs and walked back into the living room with a grin. "I'm getting-"  
  
"... Guy..."  
  
Guy stopped talking, feeling an odd chill rushing down his spine. Thomas's voice was suddenly so much quieter than before, still low and soft - but now with a tone only describable as either stunned or _betrayed. I'm not going to like this_ , he thought frantically as he glanced towards the younger boy; Thomas was sitting on the sofa with his sketchbook open on his lap, and he was staring down at it, hand paused and trembling above one particular page, the very one with Roulé drawn on it, splayed on the couch with closed eyes and nude body and all. "... Who... who _is_ this?"  
  
 _Oh... oh, no..._  
  
He'd feared this, and yet on the back of the mind had thought it inevitable at a certain point. To say that he was _surprised_ was inaccurate - he'd known from the moment that he took up the sketchbook that he was taking a risk, dismissed by him in a bout of teenage impatience and the arrogant assumption that things would always work out in his favour. That did absolutely nothing to help the claustrophobia that came crashing down upon him, the feeling of having been shoved into a corner without warning; just because he had been aware of the risks didn't mean that he had imagined things to play out in this manner, nor that he'd thought of a backup plan. So keeping his voice as steady as possible, Guy stared into his eyes and asked: "Did I say you could look through that, Thom?"  
  
"... W-well, no, but I just... wanted to see..."  
  
"Couldn't you have _asked?_ " he continued with much irritation, walking up to Thomas and throwing (what he hoped was) a casual-looking glance down at the page. "I know it's just a sketchbook and that it's mine and you're my best friend and all, but you've always asked before."  
  
"I'm sorry, Guy. But I - I need to know, who _is_ this man?"  
  
"A friend."  
  
This only seemed to rile Thomas up even more. Guy tried to take the sketchbook away and he wouldn't let him, his palm held flat upon the page. " _What_ friend?" he pressed, grasping Guy's hand with his other, fingers squeezing tightly onto his skin. "like - a family friend?"  
  
"... What business is that of yours?"  
  
Thomas opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. There was no recognition of Roulé on his face, either, he wasn't just trying to force something he already knew out of Guy; he honestly had no idea, and no justification to back up his demands, not after having gone through the book without the other's permission. "It's..." he mumbled weakly, allowing Guy to finally snatch the sketchbook away and into his bag. "it's... it's not, I guess... but he, he's so _beautiful_ , oh, I hate it! It's not - _normal!_ "  
  
 _Not normal._ Guy had a sudden and unpleasant flashback to Friday, to Thomas insisting that 'everything was wrong', and all the unpleasantness associated with it came flooding back again. "You're... sure fond of insisting that whatever you don't like is 'wrong' or 'abnormal', aren't you, Thom?" he replied, and even he was surprised at how harsh he sounded; _but rightfully so,_ he thought. "that's not how the world works. I'm going."  
  
"What? No, Guy...!" Thomas stammered and faltered into silence, but not for long. "I - I hate it, because it reminds me of the dreams I've had the past few days... I don't mean that man _personally,_ but just the idea of you and him... no, you and _anyone_ e-else in a situation like this... Because... in my nightmares-"  
  
Guy buckled his satchel shut and turned away. "In your nightmares, _what._ What have _they_ got to do with any of this?"  
  
Thomas flinched at the coldness in the other's voice, but refused to back down. "It was _you!_ " he cried, making Guy stop again in shock. "that person I told you about, the one I saw being hurt, that was you! For the past few days that's all I've been seeing, Guy, this strange _darkness_ hurting you over and over and... and me being unable to help! But... but at the same time-"  
  
"... Thom-"  
  
Guy didn't get to finish his speech. He'd barely turned his head to address the other when he found himself enveloped in a desperate, crushing embrace by Thomas from behind, the other's breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts against the back of his neck. "In last night's dream, that was the worst so far... even though y-you were in pain... you could _see_ me that time and you _didn't care_. You were... happy without me," the younger boy whispered, tightening his arms around Guy's waist desperately. "you were _happy without me_ , I couldn't stand it...!"  
  
Now Guy was confused in addition to being irritated and defensive, creating a vicious feedback loop in his mind. Had he been in a more reasonable mood, he would have asked the other to clarify; perhaps he'd even have sat Thomas down for a lengthy, serious talk, wanting to get to the bottom of the issue, but right now he just wanted the conversation to be over. "That's the worst, huh?" he said, and pushed the other's arms off his body. "is that what scares you so much, Thom? The idea of me happy without you being in the picture? Am I not allowed to take care of myself or be happy if you _aren't there_ , or something?"  
  
"N-no, that's not what I...!"  
  
"This is getting ridiculous. First of all, Thomas, I'm _fine_. No one's hurt me, not you, not my family, not that man-" he tapped at his satchel. "- _no one_. What you're telling yourself is entirely true, that it's just a dream, and you'd do well to keep on doing that until those nightmares go away. Secondly, you seem to be under the impression that he and I are more than friends or something, and that's just not true," a note of bitterness entered his voice at that point. "I'm _frigid,_ remember? Bottom line is, I mind my own damn business, and you should too."  
  
The younger boy clenched his fists. "Well, how else am I meant to interpret something as intimate as this?!"  
  
"Thomas," Guy grasped his shoulders. The younger boy was trembling with disbelief, eyes wide as he stared at Guy. "Thomas. Listen to me. That man only just recently came into my life. I didn't know what to make of him at first, he was a lot of things that I didn't quite know or understand. Even now I don't fully know what to make of him. But I'll tell you something: _there's someone who needs my help and that is him._ That man. He's put a lot of faith into me and I don't want to betray that, all right? I wouldn't betray you. He's a friend. Like you, Laurent and René are my friends. He has importance in my life. I'm happy with you - but I'm becoming happy with him too, trying to figure out what I can do to help, and I don't think you can disagree with me that helping is a good thing to be doing."  
  
"A friend who let you draw him in the nude. I'm not buying that!"  
  
"Oh, don't be so _childish_ ," Guy sighed, and slung his bag over his shoulder. "first of all, he wasn't _actually_ nude, and second, he knew perfectly what he was doing as a model. But enough. I'm going."  
  
"You make it sound like _I_ didn't," the younger boy retorted tearfully. "but it's less him being nude - I - why didn't you tell me about this man before today, that's what I want to know! What have we got to hide from each other?"  
  
The older boy glared at him, exasperated. "Because I was keeping his secret! You've never kept a secret in your entire life? You value me as a friend so much precisely because you know I'd keep one's faith, that's what you told me once before. Why, did you think that applied only to you? You couldn't allow me this much, when I've kept quiet on plenty of things about you, like - like you spilling water on Daniel's turntables years ago or what happened to you during that sleepover a couple of weeks back?"  
  
All colour drained out of Thomas's face. His lips trembled faintly; he was attempting to talk, but nothing was coming out, his words had simply evaporated. He must have thought all this time that he'd managed to get away with it, not having known that Guy had been awake, and it was true that the other had never intended on mentioning it. This was nothing like the usual kind of secret they'd kept for each other. This one was so _personal_ , so _humiliating_ , the lowest blow he could have given the younger boy and at the worst possible time, all because he'd wanted to stop him talking - and now he had, Guy realized what an utterly monstrous thing he had done. Something had disappeared between them and it was he who had destroyed it, far more thoroughly than he'd ever expected or even wanted.  
  
"That's..." Thomas stammered. "that's... that's so _mean_..."  
  
 _Guy-Manuel, just leave already and stop hurting him, he doesn't deserve it! You are genuinely the worst-_  
  
"... Yes," Guy admitted, though he still didn't look around. "... that was... that _was_ mean. I'm sorry, Thom. I don't know what I was thinking," he took a step forwards, then another, slipping on his shoes; he was just eager to get out of there before either of them said anything even worse. "... let's talk about this tomorrow, when I'm not as - _irrational_ \- I'll see you then. _À demain._ "  
  
"Wait!"  
  
But Guy was already out of the door. Thomas hurried after him, but something about Guy's straight-backed and tight-lipped posture as he walked prevented him from following him out onto the street; nothing that the younger boy could ever say would turn him back around. "Look at me," Thomas murmured weakly to himself, mortified at his own tears. "I'm sorry... don't leave me, please, I didn't want to... oh, _Guy._..!"  
  
\-----  
  
But he did.  
  
To say that Guy felt _guilty_ would have been an understatement. Before he'd even set foot outside of the door he felt remorse and knew that he was to blame - this conflict could have been entirely avoided, had he opened up to Thomas or any of his friends, weeks ago. But that ship had long since sailed. Now he had experienced things with Roulé that he felt that he could justify or retell in good faith to no one at all, and that made him defensive; Thomas didn't know what he'd gone through, nor did anyone else, and regardless of how irrational he felt - he felt _attacked,_ and was too young to reason it out any further from that point. He was at fault for not having spoken up when he could have, yes, but could he blamed for only having intended to keep everyone's interests in mind?  
  
He knew Roulé to be out of the ordinary, not to be crossed, yet in need of company and recognition; he knew his friends to be altogether very ordinary and living lives better off not intruded upon. How _else_ was he meant to have reconciled the two?  
  
He puzzled over this all the way home and through the rest of the evening, and came up with no answer other than 'approaching Thomas again at some point to talk about it'. It was a useless answer, too, this already being an inevitable consequence of them being friends. "Did you have a good time with Thomas today?" his mother had asked him at some point during the evening, further commenting that he was being very quiet about it, and that only made him feel worse.  
  
" _Oui, Maman_ ," he'd eventually replied. The lines between what counted as a lie and what didn't in his mind had become terribly blurred by this point, so much that he barely even had an opinion as to what he was saying. " _oui._ "  
  
It _had_ been entirely lovely until the last ten minutes or so. That's how he rationalized it anyway.  
  
Before bed he considered calling up Thomas, but refrained for two reasons: he wasn't sure whether the other was still up and spending time with family, and he was even less sure whether Thomas wanted to hear from him right now. And regrettably, Guy couldn't honestly tell himself that he was considering this purely for Thomas's sake - deep inside he wanted to be _self-assured_ enough to sleep, to put his own mind at rest, and as a totally-understandable and yet tragic consequence of himself being human he really prioritized that over the younger boy's welfare. He was perceptive enough to recognize that he wouldn't be acting in Thomas's interests if he called up now, but lacked the drive to genuinely consider said interests; so he merely told himself there was always time to talk later before getting into bed and falling straight asleep, too exhausted to even dream.  
  
They would meet up at the Métro station in a matter of hours, all conversation could be reserved until then.  
Guy wasn't looking forward to it, and had no intention of revealing anything more about Roulé, but at the same time he knew not to avoid the confrontation. He hadn't really been surprised that things had transpired in this manner, so he'd continue to try to work it out. It was an admirable attitude, for sure, but it prepared him not at all for the _very_ unpleasant surprise he received upon coming downstairs the next morning and found his mother in the process of hanging up the phone. "Who was that, Maman?" he asked, running his fingers through his hair to untangle it the best he could.  
  
"Thomas just called, he told me to tell you that he won't be in school today."  
  
Guy stared, pausing mid-movement. " _Thom_ did? But - but why?"  
  
"His father's ill and someone had to keep an eye on him for today, apparently... if you could drop in sometime during the evening and check that they're both okay, Guy."  
  
Somehow he managed to stutter out a yes and stumble back upstairs; but this put a major dent in the plans that he had made, and he was suddenly anxious and worried. Thomas had mentioned that his father had been feeling unwell before, and Guy had in the back of his mind understood that the other boy had been justified in worrying, but he hadn't believed that it would progress to a full-on illness this quickly. He wasn't happy about having his apology and the talk with Thomas delayed so, but none of that was Thomas's (or Daniel's) fault in the slightest - it was his own. So he swallowed the bitter pill and left for school on his own, alone on a day where he wasn't meant to be, alienated from his surroundings as he rode into what felt like nowhere.  
  
He did not even see Roulé. Guy was well and truly isolated today.  
When he got to school, he shook off all of the questions about where Thomas was, mumbling faintly that he had his reasons. Ony in his German class did he feel somewhat normal - Group A was taking their speaking exam elsewhere, so the class was half-empty and casual anyway - but this didn't last long, as for an hour before lunchtime he was forced to contend with an uncomfortably empty seat next to him. Not even the usual note came around today; Rene was in a lengthy Latin exam, and with just he and Laurent remaining in the class, neither of them saw the point in it. All in all, it made for a time both unspeakably dull and nervewracking.  
  
 _What are you up to right now, Thom? Doing better than me, I hope._  
  
The bell rang. Guy had never been so thankful. As he was picking up his satchel Laurent came up to him from the back of the class. "Guy."  
  
He looked around. "Laurent. It's just the two of us today then?"  
  
Laurent nodded and patted him lightly on the shoulder. "I peered into René's class earlier, they're not done with the exam yet and won't be for a while. Good thing too, I was wanting to talk to you about something. Come with me?"  
  
Now what could this be about? Guy searched Laurent's expression for a couple of seconds and found nothing. He was exactly as open-faced and avid as he always looked. "Sure."  
  
Past the chrome-plated tables in the cafeteria and lively chatter they went; past the benches they would all sit on during lunch; past the library, and towards the gates, before Guy finally paused and asked Laurent where he thought he was going. "Somewhere private," the other boy stressed, following along the wall where the gates were joined instead and leading Guy to sit beneath a large tree. "there. I don't plan to keep you for long, so I'll get right to the point. _Thomas_."  
  
Guy fidgeted nervously. "What _about_ Thomas."  
  
"I couldn't keep quiet in good faith. It's just as well that he's off school today, I wouldn't have dreamed of it otherwise. You remember on Friday? When he ran off and nearly punched Basti in the face?"  
  
"How could I forget?"  
  
Laurent nodded in approval, pursing his mouth briefly and tapping his fingers on the ground. Then he lifted his head to gaze out over the school ground, then up at the sky, trying to work out the most concise way of putting what he wanted to say, while Guy waited with increasing impatience. Whatever it was, it surely-  
  
"I'll give it to you straight. Thomas has a crush on you, Guy."  
  
\- couldn't be _worse_ than-  
  
"No he doesn't," Guy responded immediately, his tone of voice unchanged and calm. Laurent blinked at him, and made a face as if to ask if he really was that dense. "he can't be, Laurent, this... this isn't funny. You think either he and I need this _now_ of all times-"  
  
"I'm not trying to argue with you, and I suppose I should also tell you that he's never said that in those exact words. So if that's the level of confirmation you want, you aren't going to get it, because it doesn't exist. But you asked me on Friday why Sabine picked on you out of all people, when you'd never talked to her - you never wondered _more_ about that? Honestly? Because you're right, there's no good reason for why she should have said such a thing."  
  
Guy had no response for this. He chewed lightly on his lip, thinking back to then and how Laurent had claimed to not know the answer to that question. "... So you knew, you were just - keeping it from me?"  
  
"I had no choice, not when Thomas was there, and not when I knew he would be next to you all day. Here's the truth. Sabine noticed something about how Thom was acting towards _you_ and never to anyone else, that's why she got spiteful that one time. I was there when he sought her out and told her... 'I don't want anyone at the moment, Sabine... hell, someone could dare me to kiss Guy or something right now and get myself punched in the face, and I'd still much rather do that than consider an actual relationship with you or anyone else...'"  
  
 _You were happy without me, Guy... I couldn't stand it..._  
  
"... 'there's nothing you can do about that'. For all I know it just confirmed for her that he had feelings for you, though I'm aware it doesn't solve anything in regard to what you feel."  
  
"... That's..." Guy uttered, gesturing with one hand helplessly. "... a bit... um... _très méchant_... kind of... _bitchy,_ isn't it?" Laurent gave him an incredulous look that indicated that he was completely missing the point. "but I - did he - actually _mean_ that? Was it just a convoluted metaphor or-"  
  
"Exactly what I asked him afterwards."  
  
"So what did he _say?_ "  
  
"He said he didn't know, so I never got a definite yes or no from him," Laurent said quietly. "please understand that I'm not trying to downplay your interests, Guy. If you don't want it or feel the same, then hell, _you don't feel the same_. But Thom has to know. Maybe being with Jacqueline's put rose-coloured lenses on me and again I'm not entirely reliable at understanding how you or Thom feel about this, because I'm not either of you - but Guy, the way I've seen him in the past few months, and especially last Friday, he's crushing on you so badly that not even he knows what on earth to do or say. Chances are he doesn't even know that he might like you, because you two have been so close for so long, and he's _confused_. It's literally obvious to everyone but you two. You couldn't have looked at him walking away and thought he'd said that to Sabine as a joke."  
  
 _I never claimed that it was,_ Guy thought, but somewhere along the way the words got lost in his mouth. Forget sleep paralysis and lucid dreams, this was on another level of unreality altogether.  
He merely stared ahead as the other boy squeezed his hand and met his eyes-  
  
"Or at least, I _really_ hope you won't think that. Not now that you've heard this from me."  
  
\- and knew that despite the advice that he proceeded to give, Laurent was glad that Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo could be counted upon to have absolutely nothing to say.  
  
"Talk to him, Guy."  
  
\-----  
  
After that, Laurent left him, saying that he appreciated the fact that Guy would need some time to think about it all. Guy was suddenly all alone before everything had sunk in, hours to go before his day was over. His mind was a mess, a torrent of confused emotions rushing through him, made worse by the fact that he personally was affected so little by it. So Thomas liked him - what of it? No matter how much he tried, the most intense _anything_ he felt for the younger boy was gratitude for his friendship and his guilt from the day before. Neither of those things were _love_ in the sense Thomas wanted.  
  
 _Talk to him? About... what, how?_  
  
There had already been more confusing twists and turns in the course of this day than he could bear and expect his sanity to hold, and said day wasn't yet over. _Thomas has a crush on me_ , he repeated silently, a bolt of shame striking his very core as he remembered how he'd so cruelly left the younger boy behind. Even this was too much for him to handle, and much to his mortified horror he let out a chuckle that soon morphed into peals of _laughter_ , high-pitched and hysterical. " _Mon Dieu_ ," he gasped weakly, unable to hold back his near-deranged laughs even though he was digging his nails into his palm as hard as he could muster. "holy _shit_. I can't do anything about you liking me, Thom, but you fell for someone who's _really_ fucked up, I can tell you that."  
  
A harsh rumbling sounded from the distance. He looked up. The sky was clouding over rapidly, a thick musty grey in the distance.  
Not far off, perhaps not even minutes away, was a rainstorm headed this way. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some of the other students getting up to crowd indoors, clearly not appreciating the interruption to what had been a perfectly fine day; he alone was compelled to stay, and stood his ground. Correct to his prediction it was less than five minutes before the first few drops of rain began to fall, at first a bare mist in the air before strengthening into visible, almost-painful, drops on the skin.  
  
He couldn't stay here any longer. Guy stood up weakly, inhaling and exhaling in short, irregular bursts.  
Now that he knew, he couldn't go visit Thomas or go straight home; that left one place, and as impolite as he'd have thought himself before, he also felt _dangerous_. Thomas had so long considered Guy his guide to the world - but now he himself needed someone to point out the way. As soon as he'd calmed down, he tied his shoelaces and took off running, straight out of the school gates and all the way to Villiers Station, his every breath and blink painful amidst the rain.  
  
Twenty minutes later found Guy knocking frantically on the door of Roulé's apartment. The older man came to the door within the first five knocks, half-dressed, dark-haired and a bewildered look on his face. "R-Roulé!" Guy cried, nearly falling forwards into the doorway; the man caught him swiftly and stared into his face. "I know I'm not meant to be here yet, but something's happened and - and, oh, what am I going to _do?_ "  
  
Roulé mouthed something, but Guy couldn't catch what was being said at all. He repeated it three times, then stopped and frowned. trying to puzzle out what he was doing wrong - before lightly tapping his own lips with a finger as a signal for him to _pay very close attention, if you wouldn't mind, please._  
  
"I - I am..."  
  
The older man leant down. _Qu'est-ce_ , he mouthed slowly, pausing after every couple of syllables, _qu'il_ , to prevent the individual parts of the phrase blurring together, _y a?_  
  
 _What's wrong?_  
  
"I wish I _knew,_ " the boy whispered, and closed his eyes, lowering his face into the palm of his left hand and holding it there. "I... I wish I understood..."  
  
It was a poor answer to give to such a simple question. Indeed, it wasn't an answer at all, and whatever he'd expected Roulé to do for him, he couldn't actually _do_ it if he knew so little about Guy's dilemma. But his distress was such that the older man pressed no further and simply beckoned him towards the bedroom, getting him to sit down on the only chair, the one in front of the vanity table. (He glanced at the wall of phrases. They were all reordered, but he was too depressed to think much of it.) The back of the chair had a couple of bowties and a dry towel draped across it, and as soon as Guy sat down Roulé pulled off the towel and began drying his soaking hair with it. "You don't have to-" the boy began, but faltered straight away, resigning himself to the touch. Roulé's hands were firm and slow, devoid of judgement, focused only on comforting him until Guy felt all right enough to talk. Any other day and he might have been mortified at how his hair was awfully prone to tangling, but when the man ran his fingers slow and ponderous through the locks they fell soft and loose once more.  
  
It was incredible, Roulé's ability to calm him down without ever saying anything. He was the only person Guy knew who could do this _right_ , being able to communicate care in its pure glory without resorting to speech or written words. It made him dare hope - having no other authoritative or trusted figure to talk to at this moment - that perhaps he could confide in Roulé, that he might be able to show him the way.  
  
"Can I ask you something, Roulé," Guy whispered. "what does a kiss even _feel_ like?"  
  
The other's hands froze mid-toweling, and were held there for several extremely awkward seconds.  
Guy didn't even dare to look into the mirror to see Roulé's expression. It was Roulé who met his eyes first, actually kneeling down to bring himself at face level with Guy, staring extremely hard and unblinking into the boy's face as if attempting to read something from it. He held that position for over a minute, forcing Guy to actively turn his face away out of sheer discomfort, before he straightened up, tossed the towel on the bed and offered him a hand, helping him to stand up and leading the way out of the bedroom. He made straight for the kitchen, pouring out two glasses of pink champagne (Guy's hands-down favourite out of all the wines and champagnes Roulé had) and taking a small plate out to place a single, plain bread roll on it. This he took over to the couch and the glass table, Guy following numbly; he broke the bread roll in half lengthways and offered it out to the boy, silently telling him to sit down, eat and steady himself before he thought of doing anything else.  
  
"I don't think I should. I don't feel like it," to this Roulé remained undeterred, and kept on insisting with exceptional firmness, even enlisting the help of his fountain pen and notepad to do so.  
  
[ _Heilig ist mein Herd heilig sei mir mein Gast_ ]  
  
It was easier to just accept than to argue against this. Guy sighed and took his half of the roll, taking one customary bite out of it, then sipped once at the champagne. The flavours mixed together in an odd way and he made a face, but surprisingly enough, once he'd swallowed he actually felt calm again. Roulé, seeing the change in his expression, only then sat down as an invitation for him to go ahead. "... I should explain myself, shouldn't I, and try to have this make sense. I'm sorry if this sounds melodramatic or like I'm rambling at you pointlessly, all of this kind of got thrown at me in the past hour," the older man linked his fingers together and leaned forwards, showing that he was listening. "thank you for this."  
  
 _Never a problem for you,_ the other's posture seemed to say.  
In the same fast-paced and slightly disjointed manner as he'd had when he'd first told Roulé about Thomas, Guy outlined his problem in ten minutes, leaving nothing that he thought was important out; save for the fact that Thomas was aware of the older man's existence, everything relevant was talked about. At first he'd only wanted to talk about Thomas and his supposed crush on him, but he couldn't explain why he was so troubled about it unless he brought up the long-dreaded issue of his suspected asexuality, so he talked about that as well. "- And Roulé, I really hadn't thought this was a problem before. That was last Friday and I thought I'd made peace with that idea, but now that this is happening, I don't know what to do or say to him! I've never dated before, I'm completely clueless.... do I just - _kiss_ Thomas and see what happens? Is that what people do?"  
  
Roulé's eyes darkened. They only did so slightly but it was a _perceivable_ darkening; Guy actively _saw_ it happen even through the shadows of the living room, and the sight gave him chills, but he didn't look away. The older man opened his mouth - closed it again, looking faintly annoyed (whether at himself, Guy or Thomas, he couldn't tell) - before resorting to the pen and paper.  
  
[I wouldn't be quite that hasty]  
  
"... Okay, I _shouldn't_ kiss Thomas. Right. Is it because it'd be my first?"  
  
[A kiss is exactly as valuable as you make it out to be regardless of whether it's your first or not that's not the point I'm trying to make  
if you don't make a big deal out of it I suppose it's fine for you but you have to consider your partner as well and that goes both ways]  
  
Guy thought about this, nodded slowly, and relented the idea.  
When put in that way, it seemed obvious that this was not a good course of action to be taking. What was _wrong_ with him today?  
  
[You might be committing yourself to something that you don't feel at all and that can only work out badly for you both at least that's what I think]  
  
"But he expects _something_ from me," the boy said distractedly. "and I don't know what I have to give. He was so distraught about me being called frigid - hell, that still kind of freaks _me_ out if I'm thinking too hard about it - and I know he wants something that I'm not capable of giving, at least not in the way he's thinking of. Should I be honest with him, that I don't know if I have a sexuality to begin with?" he was talking rapidly to himself at this point, and Roulé in all his godly patience sat and listened to him nevertheless. "but I don't want to upset Thomas and I know _that's_ definitely going to upset him, now that I know what he feels about me!" he held his head in his hands. "... I might be overthinking this... yeah... maybe... I have no idea what to expect from him, after all..."  
  
Guy trailed off in a murmur after that, then into a stunned kind of silence as he tried to figure out what to do, before his head snapped up. "Roulé," he asked. "could you kiss me?"  
  
The confusion and horror on Roulé's face at that was nearly palpable. He shook his head fiercely and lifted his hand, palm outwards, rejecting the notion altogether. "Am I _that_ disgusting?" Guy asked, aghast, and got another shake of the head in return although the man looked no less distressed. "I don't mean it in a... romantic... or _sexual_ way, God forbid. Can you? Just once, please, I don't think either of us would put much meaning to it? I'd like to know about it."  
  
[Could you kiss me why do you keep on asking me that could you kiss me you could kiss me why do you want to kiss me what good can it do for you]  
  
Roulé was upset, to say the least, his words were blurring together. "Please don't be annoyed," Guy implored as gently as he could. "I only want to be shown it once or told about it. I want to know the kind of thing people are expecting. So I know what to do if it happens to me, or if I finally figure out what's up with my body... so that I might even be able to give this a go with Thomas, for _his_ sake."  
  
[That is precisely the wrong reason to learn how to kiss or enter a relationship  
Besides you are only a child what makes you think I'd be okay with this]  
  
"A _child?_ " Guy repeated, indignant; he felt red rush to his cheeks, fairly against his wishes, and shook his head fiercely to try to dissipate it. "I'm not... Roulé, you can't possibly be thinking... _I'm not a child, Roulé_! I might be young and I might not quite be an adult, but I'm certainly old enough to be trusted with alcohol and even sex - that's just legal and biological _fact!_ "  
  
[Well what do you want me to say calling you a teenager doesn't change much and being legal means nothing the legal age is fifteen and you wouldn't trust a fifteen or sixteen year old with a great deal let's face it that does you no credit at all]  
  
"But I-" then he remembered something that Roulé had said a few days ago. "... okay, fine, I get you on that, but what was that you said? Kisses only have as much meaning as you put into them? I'm really not all that fussed about first kisses and what have you, Roulé, can't you just... teach me what to do so I can... apparently function like an ordinary human being? I don't know, so I'm not so irredeemably _broken?_ " Roulé looked stung at that, and raised his hand to protest. "you might as well consider it, what the hell, you've never exactly hidden the specifics of your job from me. Why should you have? It's who you are and you have every right in the world to be yourself, right? We've opened up to each other. I'm not naive, I simply need some guidance right now - and who in the world can I trust right now if not you?"  
  
"I need your help, Roulé. You're indebted to me, remember? Either... either show me or tell me what I should do."  
  
 _Indebted_ \- the older man first looked rather outraged, then dismayed as the word sunk in. Doubtless he considered himself to be trapped in his own offer. With much reluctance he took Guy's face in his hands, poised as if to actually kiss. Guy glanced down at the other's mouth and felt nothing, though he did allow himself to imagine how cold it would be against his own. At least neither he nor Roulé would bestow more than an educational meaning to it. At least, that's what he thought. The older man didn't even get to lean forwards before he dropped his arms, looking almost disgusted with himself.  "Roulé, _look_ -"  
  
[Don't ask me to do this please I can't  
you don't even feel that way towards me]  
  
Guy's hands curled into fists, a sudden, violent anger cascading within him. _"I don't feel that way towards anybody!"_  
  
Roulé's face paled even more. This was the first time he had ever lost his temper in front of Roulé - in front of anyone, really, he hadn't felt so helpless and angry in a long time - but that accursed word, _feelings_ , that one word with a different definition for everyone Guy talked to, had driven him quite over the edge with frustration. As silly as he felt, he had no intention of letting it go, for being able to show anger and vent as much as he wanted made him feel (in a twisted way) in control of _something_. "I don't feel that way towards anybody - not Thomas, not any of my friends, no one! I don't enjoy being like this, no, what I want is for this problem to _go away_. And I'm trying to _believe_ , Roulé, I'm honestly trying to believe that there's nothing wrong with me, but it's _so damned hard!_ People act as if I'm broken or heartless for something as simple as lacking romantic feelings, but when I'm making an effort they do their best to stop me from learning because my attempts are somehow considered fake!" he breathed hard, angrily brushing back his hair. "I just - oh - I can't stand it, everyone else around me attributing all those meanings to gestures and emotions where I'm literally incapable of seeing any! Wait for the right person? _What_ right person? Someone who'll reach out and press a figurative switch on my back to turn me on? Why can't people understand how completely _meaningless_ that kind of advice is to someone like me? How am I to put any faith in myself when people insist that I shouldn't make too much of a fuss about sex and go on about how special it is _at the same time?_ I don't feel that way about you? Well, you don't feel that way about me, either - so what's stopping you? No, really, what is? How am I to understand that a kiss is both an inherently-meaningless and yet some kind of sacred act at the same time? If I'm so much of a child, then _why on earth did you even feel me up in the Métro?_ "  
  
The older man was looking increasingly alarmed, and almost fearful of his own safety. He ducked his head and quickly scribbled something, but the sight of him somehow made Guy even more frustrated. "No, Roulé," he cried, throwing himself forwards to grasp at the other's arm, "let me speak!"  
  
Two things happened in the instant that final word left his mouth: the first was that Roulé toppled over easily (and unexpectedly) under the boy's weight, and the second thing was that the fountain pen clattered on the floor, splitting into two parts on impact. The inkwell hadn't shattered, thankfully, but the sight of blue ink swirling helplessly within it brought Guy back to his senses and he stared, aghast, down at himself and Roulé (who stared back at him with terror). "What have I done," Guy whispered, horrified, slowly lifting his hands from the other's body. "oh my God, Roulé, this wasn't what I-"  
  
Roulé's hand shot out to the side, fingers grasping at the notebook until he took hold of the page. Then before Guy could react, he crumpled it violently in his hand and tore it free from the whole - before _shoving_ the boy off him with his full strength, the piece of paper pressed between the other's chest and his spread-open palm. Guy fell over on his side with a weak cry, but the note fluttered down in front of him before he could really register his pain, and once he read it he was so shocked and horrified at himself that he quite forgot about anything else.  
  
[ _Stop!_ ]  
  
This was it, his long-feared answer to how the older man reacted to abuse; this was how, and indeed the _only_ way, Roulé was capable of screaming.  
  
The silky-smoothness of the other's skin still burned in Guy's palms; with his weight gone, Roulé sat up, flinching away when the boy made as if to help him out. He hadn't expected the other to be so light; regardless of what he was capable of, that didn't change the fact that he had managed to pin Roulé down in an awfully _compromising_ position, and that the older man was desperately frightened as a result. What had he been thinking - his _hands_ \- he'd never stopped to understand that depriving Roulé of his pen and his hands was tantamount to depriving him of words, oppressing him into a silence thicker and more sinister than the one that had seized his vocal cords. But even before this, before he did the decent, sensible thing and thought about how unfair he had been to Roulé, he allowed himself the completely _undeserved_ luxury of feeling rejected, and let the hurt well up within him until he felt like crying. "I'm sorry," he blurted out, and wasn't sure who he'd meant it towards, himself or Roulé. He curled his knees to his chest, feeling an uncomfortable heat welling up behind his eyes - no, he was being ridiculous, he couldn't show Roulé that he was crying (or was feeling very much like it) now of all times- "I'm sorry... I... I didn't... I'm so..."  
  
Roulé didn't move at all. But he was looking in Guy's direction still; the boy looked away fiercely, digging his nails into his palm and just managing to ignore the heat. He took a deep breath and exhaled before trying again. "That was... I was wrong. I shouldn't have done that, Roulé, forgive me..."  
  
And then the older man was close to him again, wrapping him up in his arms, an even more distressed air to his demeanor as he realized that Guy was close to tears. Even though he'd just managed to keep them from spilling, he still hated himself for being so weak when Roulé's fingertips came off wet after brushing against his eyes. "So sorry," he gasped out; Roulé's hand rested firmly on his back, a signal that it was all right and he should focus on calming down first. He wasn't angry - he wasn't doing this to 'forgive' Guy in any significant aspect, because he saw nothing to forgive in the first place. Words were inadequate to express the shame that Guy felt, sitting here accepting the other's grace while at the same time knowing that he was _entirely_ in the wrong. Yet he couldn't help himself from burying his face into Roulé's chest, pining for comfort; this despite the fact that he felt entombed in ice, his bodily heat dissipating slowly into Roulé's body and lost deep within it, never to return as long as he stayed in this embrace. Frankly it was quite uncomfortable and he could have done without this side of the older man - but what was his suffering compared to the other's, really? He'd seen him absorb heat from his surroundings before, had confirmed it for himself, and he'd still never connected it to how he must be feeling all the time. Roulé would only be warm during winter in short bursts, all food would taste cool and bland to him, and no matter who he held onto for warmth he would end up repelling them all in the end because of this _lack_ that he could not control. And it made it worse for Guy that he _knew_ this, that he genuinely sympathized, and at the same time couldn't seem to get past the strangeness of it all.  
  
Roulé could _tell_ , too. Guy could feel it in the faint tremors of his body and the way his arms tightened around him. Roulé could tell that he was in discomfort, and was sitting there torn with the urge to keep hold of Guy's warmth and to let him go as gracefully as he could. Indeed at that point in Guy's thoughts, the older man shifted around a little and made as if to liberate the boy from his embrace. " _Non_ ," he said softly, almost inaudibly, and curled a little closer; Roulé gazed down at him with surprise, but held still. "I'm okay... please... don't let go."  
  
And he didn't. His hand stroked soothingly through Guy's hair and down his back, his chin resting atop the boy's head, attempting to reassure. Glancing sideways from where he was, Guy saw something that he hadn't noticed before. It was so faint as to be invisible unless one was very, very close - but Roulé had a _scar_ on his throat, a thin line paler than the skin surrounding it. It looked like it had been inflicted a very long time ago, so Guy couldn't exactly tell how deep it was, but it was most definitely a puncture or stab wound.  
Was _that_ how Roulé had lost his voice? He reached out shakily to touch it with a finger. Roulé shivered heavily as Guy traced along the scar, slowly, from left to right; he didn't stop him, per se, but he was so obviously vexed by it that the boy withdrew nonetheless.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Roulé closed his eyes - opened them back again - and broke the embrace, though he didn't move away from Guy. Looking around for his notepad and pen he found them close by, but not close enough for him; so slowly, hesitantly, he began to _sign_ instead. His every gesture was uncertain, but graceful and filled with hope, which made Guy feel all the more awful for having to dash it against the ground.  
  
" _Je suis désolé_ ," he whispered, making Roulé pause mid-gesture. "I don't understand sign language. I'd like to learn, but... I'm sorry."  
  
Roulé dropped his hands. His eyes darkened again, this time with unmistakable sorrow. But there was something important that he wanted to tell Guy, and although it clearly pained him to do so, he persevered; he looked back down at the boy, his eyes locked into Guy's as he searched around for the notebook with the other hand. He didn't look away even as he found it, and the pen. With some effort he screwed the two halves back together, then sat back as comfortably as he could manage, Guy still in his arms as he began to write.  
  
[The first time I touched you]  
  
"Yes."  
  
[I did it because]  
  
He probably should have asked for that answer weeks ago.  
Guy looked at the note, then back at Roulé intensely, waiting.  
  
[because you were so clean and your uniform was so neat you seemed pure]  
  
The boy glanced down at himself. Still soaked somewhat from the rain and disheveled; _hardly the image of clean, neat or even pure_ , he thought with self-disgust. "... I'm not going to agree or disagree with you, but..." he asked even as the other kept on writing. "how did that lead to you touching me?"  
  
[You seemed like from another world the Paris Métro is not someplace you can easily find someone like that wouldn't you agree amidst the filth and despair of the waking world I wanted to hold onto you as weird as that sounds because you were so young and lost and beautiful and when I looked towards you nothing hurt]  
  
 _I'm... I'm beautiful?_  
  
The compliment itself wasn't what was baffling. (Guy didn't believe at all in it.) No, for some reason that had made him think of Thomas, how he'd curled slightly and told him that he'd 'liked his mouth' whilst sketching him. Now that he knew more about how the younger boy felt about him, he realized a parallel between Thomas drawing him and him drawing Roulé, how the younger boy must have felt looking at his body. Guy personally had no idea whether to find that flattering or not, and besides, Roulé had just finished another line.  
  
[So yes that does make me a pervert where does your work go when you're out and about nowhere that's where]  
  
"... It wasn't like that!" Guy protested. Roulé gave him an incredulous look, and a resigned, disbelieving smile that didn't reach his eyes. "it was... I knew you weren't _actually_ a pervert even back then, it's hard to explain but I could tell."  
  
[No I am I admit it I'm not going to sit in front of you and deny it]  
  
But Guy didn't want to back down either. He really wasn't lying, and he wanted Roulé to know that - he was just having the damnedest time trying to describe it, that was all.  
The first time Roulé had touched him, it had been too clinical to be sexual. Every touch after that had carried a kind of warmth in them, increasing in minuscule amounts; Guy felt that the older man had by in large respected his personal space, and that he had never acted in any way perverted towards him. "I would think that if you were a pervert, I would have found something inherently disgusting about how you touched me," he said. "a long time ago, at that. But I've never felt that you - _intended_ any of that. At first I couldn't get used to how cold your skin was, how it sometimes felt like a ghost had passed over me instead - but that's talking about the _absence_ of feeling, not your touch in itself."  
  
"I don't think I can react to you touching me as you might expect, but I've never found it... _unpleasant._ I mean that, Roulé."  
  
[You are very kind but true is true]  
  
Guy had to laugh. It came out echoing and hollow, just as empty as he perceived the compliment to be.  
"Kind," he repeated. " _kind_... ha... _kind_ , what a joke, Roulé... I'm a lot of things, but I'm not _kind_. You've just seen proof of that, haven't you - hasn't Thomas? How can I possibly be kind when I'm so bad at understanding others?" there he paused and turned his head away; he was annoyed and resentful, but Roulé didn't deserve the brunt (if any) of it and he was trying his best to hold back. "is that why you approached me in the first place, because I looked kind? I'm sorry that I didn't turn out that way."  
  
Surprisingly, the answer to this was a _very_ definite no. Roulé shook his head almost as soon as the question left his lips, followed by a clearly-mouthed _non_ ; the boy looked at him skeptically, so the older man repeated it again, only to get a raised eyebrow in response.  
  
"... I don't know what to believe any more."  
  
Roulé closed his eyes. He made no other movement, but that simple gesture painted so much despair upon his face that Guy almost relented and stopped talking. (Almost.)  
  
"When we first met I knew nothing about you. I've known you just short of a month and half and I still don't know you all that much. _Pour l'amour de Dieu_ , for all I know I was randomly selected by you as if from a lottery! But I'm not satisfied with that, Roulé. Why would you have _broken into Thomas's house_ to persuade me to stay with you, why would you have shown me such kindness, if your only motivation was that 'I was there' or that 'I was pure'? If I wasn't _important_ in some other way? There's something else, isn't there - there must have been something else from the start! What are you hiding from me?"  
  
The notebook lay limp in front of them. Guy's tone had become more demanding, and rightfully so, with each statement and fact laid bare, and yet Roulé hesitated, the pen trembling in his hand. The older man had known, he could tell - he had known that someday he would be asked for the truth, and that said truth was probably something hideously uncomfortable, and that he would never have been prepared to tell it in good faith. Terse silence reigned supreme between them for several long minutes, only birdsong and the ticking of the clock for company. Neither of them were willing to back down, until Roulé finally lifted the pen, wrote down a word - crossed it out - and resumed with severe reluctance.  
  
[You reminded me so much of him I wanted you to notice me and you did]  
  
"... Him? What do you mean, _him?_ "  
  
[My lover]  
  
Guy's face went pale at those words. Roulé's lover, the otherworldly one - _oh my God, did he actually want me to serve as a replacement or something?_  
Deep down inside he knew that the thought was ridiculous. Roulé had just shown enough decency to prove that that wasn't the case, but his knee-jerk reaction _was_ admittedly to wonder whether he ought to excuse himself and leave; yet he stayed, because Roulé was too deep into his confession now. He couldn't be interrupted for anything. So Guy stayed, watching him biting his lower lip with a slow, almost-exquisite, _painful_ grace as he moved further down the page, considered, then flipped the page over, writing on the fresh surface with a shaking hand.  
  
[The one who I long for and the one who stays away from me  
The one who breaks me and mends me with every visit  
  
The one who took my voice away because we loved each other too much]  
  
 _"... Holy shit, what?!"_  
  
A fresh wave of horror crashed down upon him and Guy _just_ managed to keep himself from screaming. He glanced back at the other's scar and was nothing less than disturbed at what this implied for their relationship - a stab on the throat couldn't have been a mere _accident!_ "He - _he_ was the one who did that to you?" he choked out instead, staring at Roulé wide-eyed. The older man neither nodded or shook his head, but the look of complete dejection and surrender in his eyes confirmed it well enough. "and he left you alone in Montmartre? To live this life? _What is wrong with him?_ "  
  
[It wasn't his fault he never intended to hurt me I deserved it anyway but he stays away out of guilt I can't stand it either  
he comes to me blindfolded too ashamed to gaze upon my face again and he suffers with me but we don't know how to fix it]  
  
"But does... does fixing it... _matter?_ " Roulé blinked in confusion, and Guy hastily amended his question. "you get by all right without talking, that's the thing... I mean, that's - a horrible thing to have done to you, but you putting it this way makes it sound like there _is_ a way to recover your voice and that's the only way the two of you can be together-"  
  
 _You just answered your own question_ , his inner voice interrupted scornfully, causing him to trail into silence. _They've been apart for so long because there isn't a fix, don't you see?_  
He saw. Roulé, seeing the understanding dawn on his features, smiled sadly.  
  
[Sometimes we are just as helpless and uncomprehending as you are I'm very sorry about that]  
  
Of course. There were things that Roulé could never help him with, and although he had known this logically, he'd never quite believed in it until this moment. He had to grant him that, now.  
"... I can't help you get your voice back, Roulé," he said. "your lover, whoever he is - I despise him for doing that to you, but I can't say that I'm happy about having been thought of as a replacement, either. I don't know. This whole thing is a mess and I really wish I'd never asked. All I know is that I'm completely _useless_ at being any kind of help to anyone," there he paused, and sniffled slightly. "... I should go... I want to... wander and think for a bit, before going home. Let me go."  
  
Silence. Out on the balcony a lone magpie cawed harshly, taking with it the bustling noise of the city.  
Guy gave it a few more seconds and slowly extracted himself from Roulé's arms, sitting a little apart from him and adjusting his uniform and tie awkwardly before getting to his feet.  
  
"Have a good evening," he mumbled. Roulé didn't move. He left the obvious - _do you still want me to come over, even after all I've done?_ \- unasked and hanging heavily in the air as he gathered up his satchel and slung it around his shoulder. He would probably have murmured a quick goodbye and left right there and then, if not he hadn't felt the other's cold hand brushing against his own, making turn to face Roulé (who himself hadn't yet stood up). The older man took a deep breath, fidgeting with his hands, before kneeling down properly on the floor. He looked up and met Guy's eyes directly before mouthing his name.  
  
 _Guillaume,_ he was calling out in sincerity, each syllable enunciated as best as possible on those lips that had denied him. _Guillaume Emmanuel._  
  
 _"... Oui?"_  
  
Roulé held his hand up as a gesture for him to wait, scribbling on the remainder of the page, his handwriting smaller and shakier than the usual.  
  
[Do you still wish for the problem to go away all this business with your friend I mean]  
  
 _You're an idiot, Guy-Manuel. So much for having thought through this before. What did you expect Roulé to do about any of this?_  
  
He turned away from the note, feeling a black hollow settling within him; even so he realized that Roulé was being _kind_. It was an all-encompassing sort of kindness, the kind that he felt he didn't deserve in the slightest, for he was incapable of returning it. Self-loathing washed over Guy as he read the note, and he let out a half-frustrated noise, standing up and adjusting his jacket. " _Ugh. Je ne sais pas._ I sure as hell can't do anything and I've already done wrong to nearly _everyone_ I know, including you. Do what _you_ want," he said thickly, his face kept averted as to not let Roulé see how weak and horrible he felt. "do _whatever the hell you want,_ Roulé, if anyone deserves that freedom it's you, don't you think so?" then he left without waiting for any sort of reply, blindly pushing open the door, leaving the older man kneeling there on the floor of the living room.  
  
A gentle breeze tickled his cheek the moment he stepped outside, ruffling his hair as if to comfort. But that only brought to the surface the memory of Roulé holding him, and - _oh_ \- he closed his eyes and held back his tears and he felt so dreadfully _cold_ , just as cold as people thought him to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **YOU BROKE IT, CRYDAMOURE. YOU BROKE IT. GOD FREAKING DAMNIT. YOU BROKE HIM.**
> 
> * 'Entgegen' is a German word meaning 'opposite/opposing'. Those of you in organic chem know this <3  
> * _Biscuits roses de Reims_ are a specialty of Reims, a city in the province of Champagne. Reims was where the German Wehrmacht signed an unconditional surrender to the Allies on 7th May 1945, hence the patriotic connection. The boys, though, they mostly just like it because it's delicious food.  
>  * ' _Heilig ist mein Herd, heilig sei mir mein Gast_ ' is a quote from Wagner's 'Die Walküre'; it means ' _holy is my hearth, let my guest be holy to me also_ '. It's also thematically relevant to the baking discussion that Roulé and Guy had last chapter.  
> * Some of you have doubtless been wondering about since Wanderjahre began - the age of consent is 15 in France, so Guy and Thomas are 'of age'. In 1990, the age for buying alcohol was also 16, so Guy was capable of doing all of that. Whether he's ready or is capable of understanding in this fic is a completely different issue.  
> * Asexuality is not wrong in the slightest, nor unnatural, nor something 'that ought to be fixed'. That sounds like a really obvious point, but I think it's worth making again. I've had several people contact me privately on how I've treated Guy as asexual in this fic, and whilst overwhelmed by the kind words, I would like to address the issue in a more organized manner later because it is really important.  
> * Wanderjahre, the only Daft Punk fic in which the sentiment 'holy shit _he used punctuation_ o_o' makes more than 100% in-universe sense
> 
> Whew, what a ride, and _it's not over yet_.  
>  Please feel free to throw me kudos, [flood my tumblr ask box with questions](http://wanderjahrethefanfiction.tumblr.com/ask), or scream at me in the comments :D  
> [ **EDIT** : As of 23/Jun/2014 I have created a new Wanderjahre-only tumblr to receive questions and other things (linked above) please make much use of it <3]


	8. Liebesleid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There are trigger warnings for this chapter.**  
>  Drugs are mentioned and so are some horrifying scenes of violence; no blood or gore, but please proceed with caution.

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 08) - ' _Liebesleid_ '**

\------------------

Guy spent the rest of Wednesday in deep, despairing silence. After leaving Roulé's apartment, he'd spent several hours wandering the streets of Montmartre in a daze, angry with himself and being empty of all direction until it got sufficiently late for him to take the train back home. He would enter a random shop, walk around twice, then stand at certain spots to give the illusion of browsing before heading straight back out again. Anyone following him would have thought him quite insane by the third time or so, but it was a pattern he had forced himself to invent and he was damn well going to stick to it. It helped his mind to not wander too badly, which was just as well, seeing as he was not even remotely in a positive mood.

_You're unbelievable, Guy-Manuel. You truly are._

By the time he'd finished the thirtieth (utterly pointless) repetition of his makeshift routine - and had endured just as many reprimands from his inner monologue - it was finally good time for him to leave Montmartre, which he was only too happy to do. Guy did find himself a little startled when Pigalle Station came into view so easily; he'd been walking entirely aimlessly, not paying attention to where he was going, and it wouldn't have surprised him in the slightest to find out that he had wandered too far away for any of the Line 2 stations in the area. But no, a couple of random turns and suddenly he was back where everything was familiar again, so fast that it had felt as if he'd been teleported there.

Not that he believed in such things. That would be just plain ridiculous.  
He visited a nearby fruit stall for two pomegranates, bought a bottle of water at a vending machine in Pigalle Station, and set off back home.

On the way he remembered that he was meant to be visiting Thomas, and turned his footsteps in the direction of his house. After the revelation that Thomas liked him, and the whole encounter with Roulé, it would have been a bald-faced to lie to say that he was looking forward to the visit; but Guy was not so immoral as to not recognize that he had wronged his friend, and that apologies were in order, regardless of what he felt about it. Thomas's feelings for him, in fact, only made Guy's callousness towards him even worse - and he was desperate to correct it as soon as possible, figuring that getting that sorted out was the absolute priority.

(Or so he thought. At some point in the past few days, fortune had swung away from his favour, and he would find out in the worst way possible.)

"Thom?" he called the moment he reached the other's house, and rang the bell twice. No one answered. He peered around the windows to see that everything was dark, and also observed that no car stood in the garage nor the driveway as it usually did. There was nothing more that he could do, then, the whole family was absent; he opened the flap of his satchel and pulled out his diary, scribbling a quick message onto a spare page; with pen clenched between his teeth he tore out the page and slipped it into the letter slot, hearing the faint click from the other end. He carried on listening for a few more seconds, verifying that no one was coming to check on the door, before he shouldered the satchel again and left. The skies were darkening by that point and the air smelled cool and damp around him, a couple of early streetlights flickering on as he walked - halfway through he pulled out the bottle of water and drank all of it as he walked, feeling oddly parched for no particular reason. The day had taken a lot out of him, that was for sure.

By the time he came home, that bottle didn't have a label on it.  
Guy wasn't the one to pick at things, that was more what Thomas did. In some odd way he felt as if he were channeling his best friend through that act, and for the rest of the day he thought about that as he wished desperately for some semblance of normality. But then what did 'normal' even mean to him anymore? His life had been _normal_ before Roulé had entered it, certainly; but Thomas's crush would have progressed and shook up his world even if the older man had never come into the picture, it wasn't fair to be blaming him alone for anything.

All he could hope for was the best, and by the time he went to bed, he had almost convinced himself that that would be the case. And by all means he hadn't been _wrong_ to reason things out in that manner, he _couldn't_ have thought otherwise. Thursday morning dawned quickly and without any phone calls from Thomas, and he thought that that meant all was in order - for the entirety of an hour and half, a pitiful timeframe, before his hopes were mercilessly dashed in front of Porte Dauphine Station.

He didn't want to believe it at first. He waited until the very last possible train that he could take and Thomas simply didn't turn up. When he finally arrived at school in a stunned, alarmed daze he was more disturbed at how no one else seemed to be; no one asked for Thomas's whereabouts at all, including René and Laurent, and everyone was acting as if it was totally _normal_ that Guy was alone. Thomas was quite popular outside of his small circle of friends, too, it was unthinkable that people would be acting like this. Only a couple of their teachers asked him about Thomas (and _off-handedly_ at that), and he could give no answer. The fact that not even the teachers knew about Thomas's absence this time meant that no one in his family had called in for an explanation. He was so unnerved that he didn't even go to visit Roulé after school (plus, there was also his discomfort over what had happened between them), instead heading over to Thomas's again only to find their house just as empty as the day before.

_What's going on?!_

He tried calling, too. Once every hour until midnight he picked up the phone, standing there listening to the dial tone only to be met with the answering machine. He left two messages - all along the lines of 'this is Guy, I've noticed you've been away, call me back', a few lines carefully rehearsed as to not let onto his mounting hysteria - but otherwise simply stood in silence and was rewarded with much of the exact same.

None of the calls were returned on Friday morning, either. It took his entire morning ritual, and him waiting in front of the station until his watch ticked half-past eight, before the truth managed to brute-force its way into his mind.  
There was no denying it by that point. Thomas Bangalter had disappeared.

\-----

"Hey, Guy-Manuel - sorry to interrupt, but we're missing a chair at the back, can we have this one?"

Having spent the past three or four hours in a daze, Guy reacted a little too late. He blinked at the sudden intrusion and opened his mouth to protest. but the girl had already picked up the chair; she mouthed a quick _'merci_!' and hurried over to the other end of the room with it. English class was already awful enough without Thomas, he hadn't needed this also - his chair, they'd taken _his chair_. If the teacher hadn't called out for silence at that point, he probably would have tried to get it back. Having an empty chair beside him had been an unpleasant reminder of Thomas's absence and it would have been erroneous to claim that he'd wanted it that way, but having no chair at all meant that even if the younger boy had been here, there was no space left for him; it was a denial of his need and existence all at once.

His fingers tightened firmly around his pen, then relaxed. He was probably overthinking this _massively_ , but he couldn't help it. He was desperately waiting for the the day to end so he could try checking up on the other's house again; nothing else really mattered to him. This time he was anticipating the place to be empty; he'd have to ask the neighbours, if possible, if they'd seen anyone in the family and when that had been. If that failed, then he might have to drop in at Montmartre to check in at Daniel Vangarde's studio. He knew that he was being ridiculous, he'd gone without hearing from Thomas for longer periods of time before, but-

_He'd never not tell me where he was going, never..._

\- he had an _awful_ feeling in his chest about this time.

He felt a tap on his back and reached out a hand behind his chair, almost out of reflex. The familiar press of the lunchtime note square was felt on his palm and he felt briefly like letting it drop - he didn't care particularly for snacks right now - but took it nevertheless and opened it. What he found was not what he expected.

_C'est Laurent.  
As-tu parlé avec Thomas?_

Guy glanced over at René. The other boy was focused entirely on taking notes, blind to the exchange. He wrote his reply and passed the note back.

_Non, je ne l'ai vu pas depuis le mardi, je m'inquiète pour lui._

At least one more person cared about Thomas disappearing, at least. Guy wasn't sure whether to find that comforting, but it was something. Laurent's reply was returned five minutes later.

_Veux-tu qu'on te laisse tranquille?_

Now what purpose would _that_ serve? Laurent surely must know that he wasn't about to go out seeking Thomas or anything like that. Guy raised his pen, about to say no, but then afterthought stopped him - sure, he didn't enjoy being alone, but could he really take the _speculation_ that would inevitably arise when he, Laurent and René were together? He wasn't so sure about that one. It wasn't his turn to get the snacks, the order had been messed up with Thomas's absence, so he wouldn't really be afforded a moment all to himself.  
He gazed down at the note, then made up his mind.

_Oui, merci._

The note was then folded up neatly and passed back; no doubt that Laurent would write up another note to pass to René, or explain the situation to him after class. He trusted the other boy to take care of it. That reassurance helped him to get over the incident with the chair, at least. He endured the last thirty minutes of the lesson admirably, even managing to answer a couple of questions and to stave off his unease until the lunchtime bell rang; he was approached by neither of his friends but when he looked up he saw that they were giving him a small, understanding smile from the doorway, which he returned as gracefully as he could manage. That was one thing less to worry about.

He was not used to having lunch alone. Loneliness wasn't the issue, but being alone in a sea of other people and feeling discomfort amongst many was, so he avoided the benches and the cafeteria altogether and crossed over to the other side of the school once he left the classroom. It took him several minutes, and because he went around the back of the building it took him to a place very rarely visited, but - so much the better. An empty row of benches stood against the wall, beneath a kind of verandah jutting out from the building, and he took his seat there.

The world was quiet here. Only his inner voice and the wind around him provided any sort of noise.  
For over half an hour he was silent, doing nothing but staring blankly ahead to clear his mind, occasionally taking a bite out of his lunch. He barely even tasted any of it and really was going through the motions of eating more than anything - he staunchly believed that most of the enjoyment during a meal came from conversation with whoever he was eating with, and he wasn't particularly interesting company to _himself_. But even this was preferable to stressing out over Thomas. Guy did not begin worrying until he opened the round plastic container filled with pomegranate seeds, grabbed a handful that he quite honestly relished - then proceeded to go and drop the whole thing altogether.

"... _Putain_!"

A perfectly good pomegranate crushed into the ground. _What a waste._ Guy reached numbly for the container; it had landed right-side up and around half of the seeds were still inside and untouched by the ground. He no longer had the urge to eat any of it, but he _did_ want it out of the way so he could get to at least cleaning up the seeds on the ground. When the container was picked up it felt sticky around the edges and he winced at the sensation, setting it atop the bench and closing the lid; then he knelt down and began picking the seeds up one by one, plucking them off the marble floor and standing occasionally to deposit them in the nearby bin when his hand was full.

It was a muted but horrid experience - no one was there to watch him, which was a small blessing - and he was dying to wash his hands before he'd even picked up a quarter of what had fallen, but what disturbed him the most wasn't that. He'd been buying and consuming pomegranates regularly for the past couple of weeks, one would think that he had developed the the delicacy of touch necessary to deal with them; but right now his fingers felt deadened, he was handling the seeds with too much force and feeling them burst against his skin and it felt _awful_. The juice clung stubbornly to his hands by the end of it, little splashes of it drying all the way up to his wrists, staining his skin and the edges of his uniform shirt and tie.

"..."

He spread out his palms and stared down at them. They looked as if they'd been spattered with _blood_ , only that the splotches also exuded a sickeningly sweet scent. That suddenly made him think of Thomas - Thomas, who had found Roulé's cologne unbearable - and sudden nausea rose in his throat, making him hastily snatch up his satchel and run back inside to wash his hands as thoroughly as possible. He felt as if no amount of soap was enough to get this unpleasant cloying sensation off his skin, and was standing there frantically rubbing away at his hands long after the last trace of the pomegranate stains had been washed away.

"...!"

It was no use. He still felt profoundly unclean.  
Frustrated, he turned the tap off and slammed his hands onto the porcelain sink, fingers curling around its edges so tightly that he felt as if he was about to tear the entire thing off the wall. Already stressed from Thomas's absence, he was falling apart at the figurative seams. And irrationally, that made him more angry than worried, as he generally considered himself to be the most down-to-earth person out of all of his peers and he really wasn't appreciating the chaos currently unfolding in his life. Just when he'd thought that he'd had it all sorted.

Slowly though, and because of the lack of anything/anyone to direct it towards, his anger faded away and was replaced by anxiety. He looked back down at his hands again. _Like blood_ , he reminded himself - sticky, crimson, cloyingly-sweet like blood - and felt a faint lurch in his stomach.

_Thomas...!_

Just then the bell rang and he was glad to hear it, it allowed him to leave the bathroom with a little style (though no grace) and head back to what was his last class of the day. Two o'clock couldn't come fast enough. Had his Friday been longer he would have just bolted off without bothering with the other classes; even so he still had to remind himself of the fact that he'd already skipped most of Wednesday just so he could force himself to sit still. He'd left without excuse, his teachers were already keeping an eye on him, he knew it. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but when faced with a situation like this, he honestly hadn't much choice. The moment the bell rang he got up and swiftly made for the door, neglecting to say even a goodbye to René and Laurent, crumpling his notebook and pencilcase into his satchel as he ran along the corridor and his feet thudded on the staircase. He did not even stop to think where he was going, all the way right up until the moment that he grasped the overhead handle in the train to Montmartre. Surreal occurrences warranted another surreal being to make either head or tail of the situation, and today Guy needed said being's help more than ever.

\-----

" _Roulé!_ "

The first thing he did upon reaching the other's apartment was pounding on the door a few times before trying out the handle. It was locked, and no matter how many times he called or knocked Roulé wouldn't come to the door. For all he knew the older man was out somewhere and wouldn't be back until the time Guy was expected - or worse, because of the last couple of days, he believed that the boy wouldn't be coming back at all. Guy dropped his satchel and let out a quiet, strangled sound in what was not quite frustration; there was no one but himself to blame if that was the case, but damn it all, he was here now and he wasn't going to give up that easily. God forbid that he lose _Roulé_ as well, especially not when they had parted on such confused terms.

And there was nothing - _nothing_ \- that Guy disliked more than _unfinished business_ in all of its possible forms.

"I haven't even said _sorry_ to you!" he hissed through his teeth, fist curling atop the surface of the door, and didn't know whether he had meant to address Roulé or Thomas. But independent of Thomas's misgivings and the events of Wednesday, Guy knew that Roulé _simply didn't enjoy being alone_ , and his feelings towards the older man had progressed to the point where he was constantly worrying for the other's well-being. Aside from state of mind, that included his safety as well, and surely no one could have seen the same things as Guy had with Roulé and thought that he was overreacting. Taking a deep breath, Guy bent down to pick up his satchel again, fishing around in it for the key. He'd barely had occasion to make use of it, as he'd gotten used to the door always being open or Roulé opening it for him; this was only the second time he had slipped the key into the lock, and the first time that he'd successfully used it for its intended purpose. A sharp, welcoming click sounded near the door handle, and he grasped it and opened the door.

He peered in. There were no lights on in the apartment at all, not as far as he could see. He thought of the last time he'd experienced something like this, and felt an uncomfortable flutter in his stomach, but the sensation was also nowhere near as bad as it could have been; this was known territory, he was sure that he could bear it.

_Here I go._

He entered. The door swung shut behind him, but before it could do so completely, Guy reached for the nearest light switch and flicked it on. That way he was prevented from having to navigate total darkness; he also kept his shoes on, wary of any more broken wine bottles or messes, and made straight for the living room. The curtains were shut and he pulled open one half of the pair, noting that the sky was beginning to cloud over outside; he left the other be, content enough with the light that seeped into the room. Everything was actually in place and clean - so was the kitchen, with only a few pieces of dried-up pomegranate peel in the sink. A rogue client likely wasn't the issue here. Guy headed towards the bedroom, leaning against the door and pressing his ear against it first to check for audible signs of activity.

There was none. When he opened the door light filtered through to illuminate the inside of the room, and he found - nothing. The bed was empty, everything was tidied and in its place, and Roulé was nowhere to be seen. But Guy wasn't reassured in the slightest - rather, he felt the opposite, as until this point he had gone through a scenario that he'd experienced previously. From this point onwards he had no idea what to expect. He shut the door again and looked towards the bathroom and spare room, seeing that their respective doors were closed as well. No light seeped out from either of them. There was no choice but to go right ahead, so he took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door first, clicking on the light switch-

\- before he clicked it right off again, his heart pounding so hard in his chest at what he'd seen that he felt as if it would burst.

_What. What is even going on in here?_

No, there was no Roulé. It just hadn't been what he'd expected to see, _ever_.  
He took another breath and turned the light on again, taking a wary step inside the bathroom and looking properly into it. It was clean, save for several lines of white powder trailing from the sink and to the floor, having been ground thoroughly into the carpet in a sickly-pale smudge. What was more, there was a lot of said powder scattered around the area, and in the sink itself lay a razor blade coated in the same substance. _Cocaine_ , Guy realized, and backed away rapidly from the scene; his eyes were wide, and unbeknownst to himself, he was finding it increasingly harder to breathe evenly in his heart-stopping panic. So what if a male escort did drugs, that wasn't _unheard of_ \- that actually wasn't what Guy was surprised about (though he found it unpleasant nevertheless) in the slightest. No, he was rather unnerved at how everything else looked so uncannily clean and untouched, making the relatively few blemishes ever more frightening for it. Wherever Roulé was, there was something _incredibly_ wrong with his life again. Guy almost didn't want to look in the spare room, but there was no way that he could let that pass now. He feared that knocking would make him lose his nerve, so he went straight for it.

Now Guy had never had an occasion to visit the spare room before. He had only ever seen it in near-darkness; he knew that the walls were white, that it had no windows in it, and that there was a piano set against the back wall, but he knew it only from silhouette. Other than that and a couple of pieces of furniture, there was nothing _special_ in the room. Roulé had certainly made no big deal of it, nothing of any note had ever taken place there and the older man had never played the instrument with Guy around. So it was of no surprise that he took quite a while to find the light switch, finding it set further into the room than he had expected - when he clicked it on, though, nothing came of it. There was no bulb in the overhead lamp. So he was forced to contend with the daylight seeping in from the direction of the living room, standing still until his eyes adjusted before he could take in the sights proper.

The room was a mess. It wasn't the kind of malicious, _violent_ mess that he'd seen in the aftermath of Roulé's assault, either. It was a _natural_ mess, accumulated over what seemed like at least a few days in some strange kind of frenzy; but there was a clear path and pattern to how everything was strewn about, as paradoxical as that sounded. Only someone who knew the place well could have done it. A small dresser lay half-open by the side, but its drawers were either completely empty or merely lined with old newspaper; a small round gold locket lay on top of it, but Guy had never seen Roulé wear it at any point, so he deemed it of little importance for the time being. The carpet was dusty and decorated haphazardly with pieces of paper, some written upon and some not, and around the room he spotted a thick notepad (not unlike the ones scattered about the apartment) that had been broken into quarters and were now lying about everywhere.

"...!"

The _naturalness_ of the mess was, however, of very little comfort to Guy who was unnerved by disorder in general - and it certainly did not help matters when he glanced over at the piano and found Roulé sitting on the chair, hunched over and with his upper body splayed out against the keys as if he were asleep or dead. "... Roulé," he breathed. He wasn't panicking as badly as the last time, but urgency was laced into his voice nonetheless, and was growing worser by the second. Thankfully, the older man reacted immediately and opened his eyes, gazing sleepily over at Guy.

"... Please wake up, _I am here_. I need to talk to you."

Roulé obeyed and sat up. A thin trail of blood ran from his nose as he did so, dripping directly onto the piano keys.  
Guy was aghast. While he stood there, too stunned to comment, Roulé casually pulled out the handkerchief from his vest pocket; he shook it open before folding it back up into a neat square, his eyes unblinking and fixed onto Guy's as he raised it and wiped away the blood. No streak of it remained on his face, but when he lowered the handkerchief again his blood shone dark and sticky upon the virginal-white silk. A quarter of the broken notepad lay in front of him, the top page stained slightly with his blood; he tore that away and dropped it to the ground before writing lethargically upon the page below it.

[sorry for the mess i just felt like shoving comfort up my nose feels good now and then  
maybe you should try it too]

"... No thank you. I want answers. _Where is he?_ You know something about it, don't you?"

 _Qui il_ , Roulé mouthed back with a smile that did not reach his eyes, _et quoi?_

"Who? You're asking me _who_? I mean my best friend!" Guy shouted. "oh my God Roulé you are _scaring the shit out of me_ _please tell me where he is_!"

 _Why don't you calm down_ , his inner voice soothed as soon as he had spoken, _you don't even know if he was involved._ And at this point in time, as much as Guy's instincts raged against it, he was still inclined towards the logical and thought this an agreeable compromise. "... I," he continued in a calmer voice, swallowing back his anxiety. Roulé carried on looking at him with that soft-inquisitive expression that he didn't like, but that was a poor reason to be shouting at him, that much Guy did know. "I meant. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. And I'm sorry for not coming yesterday... I had... _things_ in mind."

Well, it wasn't a lie, at least. Roulé nodded, accepting this reason as valid.

"... Thank you, Roulé. I, um, I don't know how to put this, but Thomas has... for the lack of a better word... he's _disappeared_. I haven't heard from him since Wednesday and I was wondering if you might know anything about where he is... seeing as you're the last person I spoke to about him."

_Spit it out, Guy-Manuel, that's not exactly what you wanted to say._

"I wanted to know whether _you_ had anything to do with it," he blurted out, and flushed pink almost immediately. "I'm aware that I'm being silly, but I... have to know."

But Roulé didn't seem to find it even remotely silly. His face remained perfectly serious and fairly good-natured, though there was still none of that usual, gentle light in his eyes. He picked up the notepad, licked the tip of his finger and folded the page back daintily and got straight to writing an answer. It was a short one, but contrary to its message, he presented it to Guy with such an outwardly-cheerful demeanor that the boy found himself more dumbfounded than ever.

[might have]

Guy's mouth dropped open. "What? Why, Roulé?" he cried. " _why_? What on - why - just - _why did you do that_ , _Roulé_?!"

[why do you care don't seem to like him very much]

"... Please don't joke around with me," Guy whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "this isn't like you! I really _am_ worried!"

The older man quirked an eyebrow, then winced, briefly holding the silk handkerchief to his nose. No more blood spilled out of it, but he was clearly in pain. This eliminated the nonchalance from his mood entirely, and he sat up proper, tidying his hair and lightly licking over his bottom lip, deep in thought. Then he crumpled the handkerchief back in his vest pocket before beginning to write on a fresh page, holding out his other hand as a sign that Guy should stay back until he was done. So the boy waited in terse silence, every scrape of the pen nib making him want to twitch, until Roulé handed the entire notepad over and gestured for him to go on.

[this was simply a realization of the wish you wanted me to grant I thought you remembered that but it's fine you know now  
though I do admit that I was surprised you turned out to not want what I thought you wanted]

".. No... no, I... Roulé, what are you even talking about..."

[but you ultimately wished for the problem to go away and I'd always much rather your life was untroubled]

Then it hit him. _Do whatever you want_ , he had said. He had said it out of genuine frustration and concern for Roulé's sake; he had never imagined that the older man would take it so literally. _But this wasn't... This wasn't what I wanted..._

 _Whatever Roulé wanted._  
Had he acted out of concern for Guy, or had he wanted Thomas gone for his own ends?

[so that was what happened  
now would you like something to drink]

That was the final message. When he looked up, he saw that Roulé had a crystal wineglass in his hand and was pouring a little bit of red wine into it; the bottle was unfamiliar to him at first glance, but it wasn't too long before he recognized it as one of the bottles that Roulé's lover had given him. It had been forbidden to him then, but apparently this was an important enough occasion that he was being invited to share. Oh, he wasn't being offered a _lot_ of it, just enough to quench any thirst he might have had; the liquid sparkled pleasantly and a sweet, alluring smell arose from it, and the older man swirled it around a couple of times before holding the glass out to Guy.

It was really as if he didn't care at all.

"I don't want it," Guy said quietly - then again with sudden anger. " _I don't want it_!"

He swiped at the wineglass; it was knocked out of Roulé's hand and fell to the ground, though it didn't shatter. It merely rolled away from them and came to a stop near the wall. All the wine in it spilled onto the floor and soaked right in, its colour blending in neatly with the burgundy shade of the carpet. Roulé looked down at the stain then back up at Guy, though his expression remained perfectly neutral - he wasn't angry in the slightest, rather _bemused_. He tilted his head to the side and surveyed the wineglass for a moment, seemingly incapable of understanding the boy's distress, and confirmed it within seconds with a few flicks of his pen.

[interesting reaction though i guess i'm not too surprised  
when a blessing is sent to people they generally don't ask why it was sent but i can see your reasoning there]

"A blessing?! Thomas disappearing is a _blessing_? When did I ever say that I wanted him _gone_?" Roulé shrugged and raised one eyebrow as if to say: _well, you tell me, you were the one complaining about him, weren't you?_ "All because I said I wanted things to settle? So what if we were having a bit of trouble - let him come home, _anyway_! Give him back to me, _anyway_! He did nothing wrong!"

[and you think I've done wrong  
weeks and months and years of existing and I have never hurt a single soul in my life it is always me who suffers]

"I don't want your self-pity, that's not an _answer_! Whatever the hell you thought I wanted, I still don't want it!" Guy cried. Much to his chagrin, his voice was becoming increasingly higher with panic. "T-Thomas is my _friend_ , Roulé - he's immeasurably precious to me, _mon Dieu_ , what did you do to him, _what did you do_?"

This was met with another blank look. For some reason that really hammered it home for Guy that Roulé's actions had been _genuine_. The older man actually did care for him, and he actually believed with all his heart that he'd acted according to the boy's best interests - he did not understand Guy's reaction because he had done everything the other had _supposedly_ asked for and had seen no wrong in it. Of course this wasn't comforting in the slightest, if anything it made the situation even _worse_ , but before he could elucidate any of it Roulé had written down another long reply for him to read whilst he got up from the piano chair and went to retrieve the wineglass.

[I felt like you would be better off without him as well  
been getting tired of him for the past few weeks from the sounds of it

so I gave him a break and it's been hard trying to adjust  
and I'm still trying to get to grips with it still but it's fine]

Guy was utterly lost for words.  
He could feel Roulé approaching behind him. The older man paused to set the wineglass atop the piano just before their bodies made contact, and reached to his side, his elegant hand flicking over to the final page in Guy's stead. The reflection on the glass revealed that he had a brief, gentle _smile_ on his lips, one that chilled Guy to the bone.

[you're very welcome]

His hand then sought out the boy's, covering it, before he _laced_ their fingers together with intimacy delicate and suggestive. For all he knew it could well have been entirely innocent, just like the rest of his touches had been, but Guy perceived it as a recreation - a _perversion_ of what he had only ever felt with Thomas, and he was so _disgusted_ that he immediately whirled around and pushed Roulé away. " _Non_!"

Roulé stumbled backwards but caught himself just in time. His expression had gone from bemused to genuinely quite hurt by this time, perhaps even _offended_. But what right had he to be offended, after what he had done? After what Guy had enabled him to do? So was he angry at Roulé, or was he angry at himself? Later on, he would regret not having remained calm enough to ask Roulé what exactly he'd meant by 'giving Thomas a break', but right now, the only thing that was certain was the anger. "Well, you _are_ , then," Guy cried, clutching his hand to his chest; this sense of betrayal, it cut down far too deep for him to comprehend, and in childish desperation he sought to lash back at the other any way that he could. "you are, Roulé. _You are a whore_!"

The pen dropped from Roulé's hand and clattered on the floor. The older man was staring at him with mouth agape in stark disbelief and horror; he took a step backwards, shaking his head, then stepped even further back until he'd backed up against the wall altogether. His lips were trembling, and instantly Guy regretted what he had said, but it was far too late for that - as he stood there, stunned at what he had done, he saw Roulé experience an entire spectrum of emotions right in front of him, ranging from flat-out denial to despair to _betrayal_ exactly like the one the boy was feeling.

 _Oh_ , Roulé was whispering, barely even mouthing it - but Guy could _understand_ him. His expression was twisted in pain. _Oh, how could you...!_

 _A whore._ The first and second time Guy had been forced to confront that word, he had dealt with it skillfully, never denying Roulé his choice in profession whilst avoiding all negative connotations associated with it. He had never imagined that he would one day throw its common usage back in Roulé's face, and clearly the older man hadn't either - he was clutching at his chest in anguish, his head hung so low that Guy couldn't see his face. He ought to have said sorry, but he was so numbed with shock and self-disgust that he did not manage another word until the other finally raised his head, and the sight made him lose his words twice over. What he saw in Roulé's expression was pure grief evolving into _rage_ , the transparent and _innocent_ kind, devoid of direction and ever more terrifying for it. There was no feeling, no feeling for Guy to describe it at all.

"... R-" he stammered. With titanic effort he raised his hand, though whether to reach out to the other or as a gesture to take back what he had said, he didn't know, "Roulé-"

Roulé moved so fast that he didn't notice until it was too late. His arm shot out and grabbed at Guy's own - not at his hand, but at his wrist, his grip icy-cold and spiderlike and encircling all of it, seemingly attempting to tug him closer. Guy cried out and pulled it back out of reflex before he'd even had the chance to dig his heels in; contrary to expectations, Roulé let go just as quickly as he had grabbed him, and he stumbled backwards, losing his balance and toppling over. Roulé was upon him within seconds, near-tackling him to shove him onto the ground so that the boy was incapable of rolling over or twisting away to the side; his entire weight was upon Guy, pressing down with force _extremely_ unlike the frailness that he'd displayed on Wednesday. Guy hadn't expected him to be so _strong_. The floor was cold against his back despite the carpeting, and the other's thin fingers were digging so hard into his shoulders that the boy almost felt as if he were being _stabbed_ right through the skin. "No-" he cried, frantically twisting in an attempt to free himself. "no, please - please, _no_! I'm sorry, I didn't - oh _mon Dieu_ , _please_!"

The older man held on; escape was impossible like this, he had to push the other off somehow. With some effort Guy tugged his arms free, his hands frantically closing atop Roulé's in an attempt to pull them off his shoulders. When that failed he braced his arms between their bodies, pushing with all of his strength (which, to his horror, he found was nowhere near enough) to at least prevent further bodily contact because he simply could not believe that the older man was _touching_ him _, violating_ him like this. Roulé's response was to snatch the boy's wrists away, slamming them onto the floor, his own cold grip around them tightening enough to bruise the delicate skin.

"It hurts! _Roulé, please stop, it really hurts_!"

It was no use. The other's cold hand clasped down across his mouth before he could carry on with his plea; his eyes seemed to bore right through Guy's own and for a moment what Roulé wanted to say somehow rung in his head, loud and impersonal and mocking: _I'll show you what really hurts._ Guy's eyes widened in shock, and he reflexively cried out against the other's palm again, even though he knew it to be useless. He was breathing hard and irregularly, feeling as if he were about to suffocate, but Roulé - though he clearly knew the agony Guy was in - only pressed his hand down harder. The man's knee was digging painfully _onto_ his inner thigh, the pressure directed further down towards his knees for the time being, but there was no guarantee that he didn't have more sinister intentions in mind. Telling himself that it wasn't happening worked not at all. As frighteningly absurd as this was, and as much as he wanted to hypnotize himself into thinking that it wasn't real, Guy knew it to be because he hurt _far too badly_ to believe otherwise. And even then the physical hurt was far from the worst of it. Guy was well and thoroughly pinned to the floor by the other man by this point; Roulé was exhaling _hard_ through his teeth with the effort of keeping him down, and Guy could feel his surprisingly-hot breath skating across the skin of his neck and down the collar of his shirt and that intense, icy _terror_ screamed its way down his spine once more, the exact one that his body had attempted to warn him with during their first meeting, a sensation beyond helplessness or revulsion. He felt primal, he wanted to flee; he still had one hand free and if he tried he _could_ have wrenched his upper body free of Roulé's grasp or attempted to kick him away. He could even have _bitten_ Roulé. Yet none of those thoughts came to fruition or even crossed his mind, as he was much too frightened to think even remotely straight. "... Oh, oh my God, oh God, Roulé..." he whimpered, his voice muffled against the other's hand and actual tears welling up in his eyes as _possibilities_ , every single one of them more dreadful than the one before it, flashed rapidly through his mind. No one knew where he was, Roulé could do _anything_ to him that he wanted and no one would hear or help- "... d-don't do this, I don't want this... let me _go_ , _please_..."

Roulé snarled and _backhanded_ him right across the face. Guy's head lurched to the side and he choked out a feeble gasp before he realized that there was no actual pain. His one free hand flew to his cheek, but he felt not even the faintest of stings there, to say nothing of a full slap. In fact, Roulé hadn't touched him at _all_ , he wasn't on top of the boy any longer. As soon as that realization sank in Guy gasped out loud and rolled over onto his stomach, hunched over defensively before he dared to look around him. Roulé was nowhere to be seen, and the room was suddenly bizarrely empty of _everything_ ; he could see the walls around him but nothing else.

But the walls were _grey_...

Unease lurched inside him and he hurriedly knelt to look down at himself. He was in _greyscale_. Everything else was, too, but the most important thing was that he was greyed out as if he were nothing but part of the landscape. This was immensely disconcerting, but not half as what he saw next. Behind him he heard a loud, sudden rustle and looked back into the shadows; he initially saw nothing, but slowly the sounds grew louder and the silhouette of two men came into view. One was physically of thicker build than the other, though the latter was taller and apparently better-dressed - they seemed unable to see Guy in return. They were locked in a vastly one-sided struggle, the taller man trying to push the other off him and failing miserably.

_What the..._

Guy's eyes widened as a sickening _crack_ rang out around them, far louder than any noise he had heard so far in this place. The taller man had been slapped around the face; while he was stunned the other snatched him by his hair and shoved him down again, thudding his head against what sounded like a hard wooden floor. As he stared ahead in horror Guy caught sight of a small golden locket sliding down past the man's collarbone and to the side, and him desperately reaching with a hand to cup it into safety. This was met with another harsh blow to the face, but the man didn't let go. Then the other's larger hand was squeezing around the other's throat within seconds, pressing firmly down onto his trachea. Even through monochrome Guy caught the flash of a long thin white scar on the other man's neck before it was mercilessly grasped at, the larger man's weight shoved upon the rest of his body.

"- do you - that - damn _whore_ -" the larger man was shouting, but his voice was distorted, fading in and out. On his free hand he was brandishing a belt. "- show you what _really_ hurts-"

Guy wanted to shout at him to stop; he wanted to rush forwards and tackle him, to do anything at all but watch. But he could no longer say anything, nor move; he could barely inhale or blink and even the pacing of his _thoughts_ was too sluggish for his liking, so much of him was frozen in place. And even then he was thinking of Thomas and the younger boy's dreams, how he had looked so frightened as he recalled 'being unable to reach Guy' in them - he had not imagined that he would be feeling the same thing now, nor the sheer horror of what it was like to be locked in helplessness. Before he could finish that thought he was watching the belt being fastened around the taller man's neck, the longer end looped through the buckle and being tugged as tight as it would go - the frantic thrumming of the man's limbs like a butterfly spinning around a pin in agony, the manic laughter -

\- even in his final throes, those _hands_ , they were clutching tightly at the locket instead of trying to fight back-

\- his head jerked sharply, back arching in agony, and a glimpse of light shone upon his face. Guy barely perceived the image, but what little he had seen struck him; he actually felt physical pain at the realization, the man's pain and terror transferred entirely to him for the duration of that flicker of light, until the illusion was shattered by the image of one pale arm hitting the ground and _lingering_ there, as limp as a plucked lily, able to protect _nothing_ any more.

 _Someone_ was screaming. It was neither of the men whom Guy was seeing; one of them was in no state to be saying anything at all, let alone scream.  
It was a full ten seconds before he registered that it was _himself_. The world was back in colour again, he could move again, and when he finally realized that he took full advantage of his regained abilities to cover his eyes with his hands and curl up in sheer terror.

" _What was that_?" he screamed. " _Jesus fucking Christ, Roulé, what the fuck was that?!_ _What did you just show me?!"_

But he knew what. They _both_ did. Roulé had known from the very beginning, especially during their first meal together, and simply hadn't told him the truth. And how could he have, Guy never would have believed it back then, not when he'd perceived Roulé well and alive in front of him - not when he had been innocent to what the older man was capable of, what other people were capable of doing out of nothing but pure sick malice.

 _I'm not the type to sleep with just anybody_ , he'd said. Of course he wasn't, not after suffering through that; even if he _had_ been such a type, there would have been no other way for Roulé to explain his circumstances other than flat out denying it, which he had done. "T-That was you, wasn't it..." Guy gasped, backed up tightly against the wall, eyes clenched shut as he desperately tried to erase what he had just seen. "when I... I asked you about that article... oh, my God, that was... so that was _you,_ you just - did they-" his own voice failed him there, and he doubled over, feeling as if he were going to be sick. He covered his mouth with his hand but withdrew it just as quickly - the act brought forth the thought of Roulé's hand, merciless over his mouth but frail and uncanny in that vision, growing ever more limp and pale as life drained out of him...

"- _Nnh_ ," Guy uttered, panting heavily, forcing himself to regain some of his normal breathing. He opened his eyes; though he saw nothing for a few seconds, his vision being too blurred by nausea and horror, eventually they managed to focus on a piece of paper lying in front of him. It was another note, different to the ones Roulé had written so far.

[Let go of you? Let go?

That's what I tried to tell them, begged, even.  
They never did.]

He was shaking uncontrollably as he stared at those three lines; his mouth was so dry that he could barely inhale through it, and he dared not look at Roulé. Even from this end of the room he could sense the fury radiating from the other - he could almost _smell_ it in the air, charged with energy dangerous and primal like thunder, and that frightened him just as much as what he had felt and seen. This Roulé was nothing like the Roulé _he_ knew, who wrote in off-kilter and lilting tones as if he had only the most tenuous grip on punctuation and possessed no scent of his own; no, this Roulé was a stranger infinitely _more_ real and full of _more_ loathing than Guy had ever encountered in his life.

Perhaps he had been _once_ , before reality had grasped at his throat and squeezed tight; but _this_ Roulé was not kind and the boy was at his mercy.

"..."

But if he didn't face him, who else would? He raised his head slowly, trembling still, and forced himself to meet the other's eyes.  
Roulé was all the way over at the other end of the room. He was sat leaning against the wall, arms resting atop his knees, glaring in the boy's direction with a near-murderous look in his eyes. It was enough to make Guy want to look away or scream, but he held on, clinging to that as the only way to make any sort of progress with Roulé. It was then that he noticed the writing. Prior to Guy bursting in that had been the only plain, untouched wall in the room, with no windows nor furniture backed up against it; there were words on it now, each bold-black letter at least three inches high, scrawled in what looked like paint with a lunatic hand that was still unmistakably Roulé's own. But they were _cruel_ words, every line stabbing repeatedly at the core of his being, one of the most brutal reprimands that he had received so far in his life.

[So I'm a whore. All right. I'm not entirely sure why I expected you to turn out any better.  
Is this what you wanted? Seeing me pushed to the limit, abused when I wasn't useful to you anymore?  
Did you think I was incapable of feeling shame, that I was there to be toyed with, that I couldn't be hurt?  
If this is all that comes to your mind when seeing that name, _my_ name - _Roulé_ \- then we've both failed, you're a lost cause, never to be satisfied.

I just want a little more, that's what all people say, I just want a little more, then I'll be happy.  
So you want more, and get upset when things don't go the way you want them to - but how could they?  
How, when your boundaries and expectations weren't extended that far in the first place?  
I don't understand humans; they display the most tremendous and astonishing foolishness, just like you have, on a scale too vast to comprehend!

How dare you, you insolent child, how dare you judge me? How dare you, when you've proved yourself to be no different to them?  
Is this all I managed to instill in you, Guy-Manuel? That because I wasn't your precious Thomas Bangalter, you could do what you wanted with me?  
That you could objectify and hurt me in his stead because it was more convenient? What is wrong with you?  
_**DID YOU THINK THAT I COULDN'T FEEL?!** ]_

"..."

He _hurt_. Guy had never imagined that he could be so far away and (relatively) untouched and yet _still_ hurt so badly.

"... _Ah_..."

A storm was going on outside. What little light that had been coming in towards the living room had been extinguished under the rain-filled clouds. The rumble of thunder broke the thick silence between them, though it was not enough to stop it for long. Together they stayed in darkness, neither of them able to speak, being crushed under the weight of half-hostile quiescence. In truth it couldn't have been more than a minute or two, certainly not five, but Guy would forever remember this moment as the closest thing to eternity he had ever felt; he knew that he was expected to say or do _something_ and couldn't find the words. Roulé expected him to defend his actions, perhaps, but he couldn't reiterate what he'd already said and was too afraid to think about it further - and thus, regretfully, what eventually left his lips was not an _apology_ in any definition of the word.

"Roulé," he whispered, his voice breaking. "... you're... you're not _human_ , are you...?"

Roulé closed his eyes. His face was still full of anger, but now there was deep, exhausted apprehension mingled with it.  
With that question Guy had voiced a deep-seated fear within them both - he had expressed what he had known all along and yet had never acknowledged. He hadn't done so before because he hadn't wanted to see Roulé as an outsider; all this time he had wanted to attribute the older man's abilities to something _explicable_ and safely belonging to the real world. To acknowledge otherwise would have opened up a vast gulf between them, inevitably raising doubt, and the sense that he was dealing with a god or some other entity beyond his comprehension. It could have easily warped out of control, leading into him viewing Roulé as some sort of monster, and by the looks of it the older man believed that about him already.

That fear had somehow managed to rise up beyond their attempts, so it wasn't as if the question wasn't appropriate, but at the same time it meant some kind of _end_. Roulé was a being deserving of more respect and awe than he ever received, even from Guy (who did still think that they'd had a good relationship), and the boy in turn was expressing all that he had, but neither of them had wanted to drop the pretense in the first place. He still had one link to appeal to, that of Roulé's honour in general, and though he had his doubts about that as well, he knelt down properly and faced the other man again.

_But I have to try._

"I want... I want Thomas back," he whispered. Roulé's mouth twitched in a sneer. "I told you before that I had no idea how much I could help you - and I've failed, I know, I have. That's my responsibility. But... but none of that is his fault. It's _mine_. Not _his_. You've got to admit that... I... please... help him come back."

_You told me to ask, Roulé... you told me to ask and that it'd be given to me..._

"My friends on one side, you on the other..."

_I believe in you... you told me I was worth it..._

"We made a _deal,_ Roulé."

_... this isn't too much to ask._

"You _promised_."

It was a weak appeal, and he felt it even as the words left his lips. It was honest but weak, a childish complaint not unlike what a tearful seven-year old might resort to. What right did he have to invoke the idea of _promises_ , when he himself had been overtly lenient in keeping his own? Had he not been naive enough already? Evidently Roulé felt the same, as his sneer turned into a bitter smirk; he stood and moved back towards the piano and the notepad, every step slow and purposeful. Contempt mingled with pity radiated from him, mocking him for having expected him to keep all his promises in the first place. Guy knew that he deserved it. He should never have been so blindly trusting.

[the amount of hubris that you possess is truly staggering]

But that, _that_ was just plain _unfair._ His indignation lent him strength.

"Hubris!" he cried. " _hubris_? Roulé, you - you think this entire business arose from... what, my _unwarranted self-importance_ or something? _Hubris_? Just for wanting my friend back with me?" his fists were tightening and his nails were digging into his palm - only later would he notice that the half-moon marks had remained on the skin, him having pressed nearly hard enough to bleed, but right now he was too appalled to notice it. "you think that this isn't a matter of consequence, that I'm - I'm just overreacting. And m-maybe you're right, you can do things me or Thomas or almost anyone else in the world could never dream of doing in a million years, what's one more human being or one more disappearance to you? Or your lover, if he belongs to the same type of whatever-it-is-that-you-are? But I am one of them, Roulé, I'm not special in the slightest and yet you think I matter - and you - you thought this didn't apply to me as well? That people generally tend to have at least one important person in their lives, no matter how unimportant they are to the rest of the world or someone like you?" Roulé's eyes hardened at that, but the curve of his mouth trembled just slightly beneath the facade. "and I'm standing here looking at you and I'm thinking why did it have to be _Thom,_ what was so _special_ about him aside from the fact that he's my friend that it warranted you getting rid of him? He's just a boy, all right! He's just a boy like any other boy in the world and it'd take almost no effort to snuff him out! I know that! But he's _mine_ , he's _unique_ , no matter how long I live I'll never find another Thomas Bangalter to replace him... you think that isn't important?"

His face was turning white to red as he continued. "... To you... everything about the two of us looks stupid and trivial, maybe, I get it... After all, what does everything I told you eventually come down to? Two _children_ as you put it having fights over and making up over nothing, right? Even if I liked Thomas back - even if I wasn't so completely _incapable_ of seeing him that way - we'd never last as long as you and your lover have, right? By all rights we're totally meaningless, what would it matter to you if one or both of us didn't exist? What would I have ever meant to you if I didn't remind you of your lover? Absolutely nothing! But I'm here, just like you are - I want to be noticed, like you do - I have loved ones like you do, I see and feel things in a way no one else ever will, and as insignificant as we both are I _trusted_ you and Thomas means so much to me in my world and - and, _oh_! You think, _you think that is not important_!"

He was too choked up to continue further, but he didn't need to. He'd hit on something; Roulé's expression wavered, and then he covered his face with both hands, all pretense of mockery gone. Against the piano he leaned back, sliding slowly against it until he was sitting back down; in that instant all anger left him. Guy could _see_ it in his twisted grimace and the way his shoulders slumped - replaced with nothing but despair. " _Désolé_ ," he whispered, but he wasn't apologizing for the _truth_ , and they both knew it. Roulé merely shook his head weakly, lips parting in what was possibly a silent cry of anguish - before abruptly biting down at his lip, reaching out with his left hand at the nearest available notepad and scribbling down a barely-legible message. He did not look at Guy for a single second as he wrote.

[i hurt all over  
i wish i was dead  
but i'm not even allowed to stay that way]

He tried to go on, but seemed unable to do so; he only got as far as half a word before he crossed it out viciously and tore off the page, crumpling it in his hands. There was only the cardboard backing of the notepad left in his hands and he threw that down too, burying his head in one hand and leaning heavily against the side of the piano with the other, running his fingers through his hair and clutching at the strands in despair that he could not voice and desperately wished to. Guy watched him in silence punctuated only with his own agonized breathing, feeling dizzy and rooted to the ground.

Roulé lowered his hand eventually. He raised his head and stared at the ceiling, his expression utterly broken in its sheer innocence, before casting his gaze upon the boy. Mechanically, he stood up and picked up what was left of the notepad from the top of the piano and walked up to Guy, kneeling down before him on one knee. Their eyes met and they looked at each other, neither willing to initiate the conversation - Guy himself didn't even know where to begin, and had the awful feeling that Roulé had nothing left in him but bad news.

[you have wronged me]

And he was correct. Guy hung his head. "... I know."

[it was nothing new and certainly far from the worst i have endured but it doesn't change the fact that you have]

" _I know_."

[but i should never have brought you into a world that you were not prepared to accept  
i acknowledge that this is mostly my fault none of this would have happened if not for me]

He reached out and took hold of Roulé's hand. "Then please help to fix it. I'm begging you. I shouldn't ever have said such a thing - before I came to you on Wednesday I'd already been horrible to Thomas, I can't even describe how much - and you took me to have meant something that I never did. I don't _blame_ you, Roulé. If you didn't like Thomas in the first place - why, that's... that's not something I have any right to debate in the first place... and I know that before anything else you were considering me. But I didn't want this to happen and I would like him back," his voice was breaking, and Roulé's hand was limp in his. "tell me that things can go back to how they were before..."

The older man shook his head at that last part. He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, and sighed heavily. Folding back the previous pages, this time he wrote only a single word, centered directly in the middle of the page.

[enough]

He then placed the notepad on the floor, that one word gleaming wetly on it, and walked back towards the wall. There was still some free space left on the right-hand side, and he got to work on it; the larger message next to it still shone with hatred and anger, but all that effort had been spent to no avail and Roulé was tired of it all. His 'speech' was slow but full of deliberation and as he read along Guy felt as if he were dying, watching the contract that they had formed break down in so futile a manner, crumbling into pieces too small to repair.

[go and be free guy-manuel i release you from all and any obligations towards me  
you and i were never meant for the same road you were not meant to be my charge  
all of this has been a mistake i realize that now we are only cruel victims of fate and nothing will change that]

All this had been for _nothing_.

[forget me  
forget my touch and the hell that is this place  
you must forget that any of this happened or that i ever existed that is the only way forward for you]

"No, oh, _no_ , Roulé," Guy pleaded tearfully, even though he knew that it was a lost cause. "it can't be this... It couldn't be anything other than this, but _it still can't be this!_ "

He barely understood what he was saying and knew that it no longer even mattered. Behind his confused, failing words lay only the simple cry of desperation - _don't reject me_! - and if Roulé did not understand that, who could? The older man paused and glanced back at Guy with a pitying expression, but it was insufficient to change his mind. They had both done quite enough.

[one day you too will hide your face from the world  
it will try to lay you bare you must fight it  
only then will both of you understand me

now go and _stay gone._ ]

The sound of rain grew ever more louder.  
The final full stop dotted, Roulé stopped writing, arm drooping heavily to his side whilst he pressed his forehead tiredly against the wall.  
It was over. It was obvious to anyone that might have been there that it was over. But Guy didn't want to accept it - the idea that he was no longer welcome and was being rejected was so painful that he simply couldn't let go. It was spelt out as plainly as possible on the wall that he was to leave, but he lingered on. "... You said, 'both of you'... does that mean Thomas would..." there was no reply. "I'll leave you be, everything you feel for me right now - I deserve it - but please spare him."

Roulé's right hand clenched into a fist, but relaxed just as quickly; he didn't look back at Guy as he wrote down his reply (albeit with much reluctance), but when the boy read it he found himself no more answered than he had been before.

"How would I know if he..." Roulé shook his head distractedly. "... I'm - I'm sorry... Roulé...?"

The man spun around. For all the terrors he had displayed, and all the terrors he had gone through, his face was still absurdly youthful - beautiful - and _blurred with tears_. It was quite enough to make Guy forget all that he'd wanted to ask, seeing how _empty_ Roulé's expression was, how bright his eyes were with teardrops not yet shed, how there was nothing left anymore but pure suffering between them. The older man didn't even look angry, all fight had left him at last; it should have done so a long time ago, but this was the final straw.

_Look at me..._

Guy backed away. Strange how he had seen Roulé suffering in various forms, had empathized with him, and still somehow had never expected to see him weeping. As he stared wordlessly, an all-too familiar voice from a recent memory rung out in his head, plaintive, tearful - _afraid_.

_I'm sorry... don't leave me, please..._

He couldn't stand it for another second, so he turned on his heels and finally left. Straight out of the room, wrenching the front door handle, the white noise of the storm assaulted his ears as he took off running all the way down the stairs and out of the building.  
He fled because Roulé had wanted him to leave. He fled because for a second there, the final image of Thomas that he remembered had overlapped on top of Roulé's. He fled because their resemblance had been too uncanny, and more than anything, he fled because it was _his fault_ that the two of them had been left in tears and he didn't want to admit it. Running away occupied his mind. Every road he had to cross, the green light flickered on with little notice, causing motorists to skid to a rapid halt; the mid-afternoon crowd was dispersed and nonexistent, all moving out of the way the moment he came into sight; " _Goodness_!" a middle-aged tourist with a camera in her hand exclaimed (exactly like that, in English) as he brushed past her and he could not even stop to muster up an apology. His entire body was on overdrive, trying to propel him away from what was both sorrow and unspeakable danger, an actual entity that had given him just the _one_ chance to run.

He was sure of it. Montmartre _itself_ was trying to repel him, opening up all its streets and halting all its traffic just so that he would leave it ever more faster.

As the crossroads came into sight, he was reminded of the first time he had followed Roulé back to the apartment. Mere weeks ago it had been when he'd found Place Pigalle a sordid and uncomfortable place to be, and by all rights he ought to have _carried on_ feeling that way. What had he been thinking? All eroticism and the red-light district aside, Pigalle had always been a _dangerous_ area for the unwary; much _worse_ things than what Roulé had done could have happened to him, at any point in the past weeks, and Guy had completely failed to perceive it. Just the potential of it was enough to make his skin crawl. Back when he had been cautious, he could have counted upon himself to react in good time to anything, but in the quite-frankly _mindless_ state he had been in - oh, he could have been picked on, robbed, cornered somewhere and no one would have known! He should never have let Roulé's allure win him over, he shouldn't have ever let down his guard. Guy did not stop until he reached the entrance of Pigalle Station and the steps leading down to it, and even then, he hadn't _intended_ on stopping. He stumbled on the first step down and had to pause and clutch firmly at a handrail to keep his balance; the wind whipped hard around his back and bounced off the walls in a deep, resounding echo, sounding almost like a long mournful groan. With frightened eyes Guy glanced behind him, seeing the setting sun illuminating the streets (and the rain particles suspended mid-air) a harsh blood-red that prickled at his skin and made him shudder. Somewhere back there Roulé was alone in his room full of resignation, spiraling down into loneliness and hatred once more - somewhere, Roulé was _crying_ , and Montmartre was crying along with him, _for_ him, in his stead. The image of him wrenched at his heart and Guy wanted to turn back, try to take care of Roulé while he was still _here_ \- something he had failed to do with Thomas - but the moment the thought crossed his mind a particularly strong burst of wind buffeted past him, almost shoving him down the stairs. If he hadn't been holding onto the handrails, he would have fallen down a flight or several, most certainly; Guy winced and shook his head as his hair blew into his eyes, raising one arm defensively as he resumed his flight.

He was no longer wanted, whether for his own good or Roulé's own. The train was just coming in when he reached the platform; he blindly shoved past the other commuters and flung himself into it, finding an empty seat and sinking into it as quickly as he could manage. A few people around him gave him a severely annoyed glance, but when he raised his head - his hair mussed about his face, wild-eyed and clearly terrified out of his mind - they quickly ceased and went back to minding their own business and then the train was pulling away at last, Guy holding limply onto the nearby railing to at least keep himself sitting straight with Roulé's final message ringing almost audible in his head

[he is still here but whether he will call to you i don't know]

and before long the next station came into view and the doors slid open to reveal what was very much _not_ Montmartre and only then did it sink in that he was

[and either way i doubt that you will believe me]

that he was

_"-tention à la marche... descendant du train!"_

_gone._

\-----

Despite the fact that his escape from Roulé's apartment to Pigalle Station had taken merely a few minutes, it still took Guy a full hour to reach his front door; the adrenaline rush had faded by the time he'd left the train, and he'd ended up slowly stumbling his way back home, his entire body growing increasingly number and heavier with exhaustion as he walked. He pushed the door open and stood leaning against the doorway weakly, staring lethargically into the darkness beyond it. "... _Je suis_..." he whispered, unable to call out any louder. " _je suis... rentré_..."

There was no one to hear nor reply. The house was empty. All the lights in it were out. Normally the darkness wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest, that being the default state that his family would leave the house in whenever they went somewhere else, but it merely made Guy shiver and reach hastily for the light switch by the door this time. The bulb flickered on, illuminating a small round spot where he stood as he pulled the door shut; it wasn't bright enough, and in fact he felt it to accentuate just how _by himself_ he was. Panic arose slow within him, then subsided at an equal pace like a tidal wave, as he quickly moved in to turn on all of the lights within reach - only when he opened the living room curtains did _warmth_ flood in to his liking, and even then, it didn't provde anywhere near the assurance that he needed right now. A large woodpigeon was feeding on the lawn outside and some younger students were laughing and crossing away from the road adjacent to the house; they were two boys and a girl, clearly without a worry in the world as they enjoyed the company of each other and the weekend-freedom that awaited them back home.

Once he and Thomas had been like that too, back when school for them had finished at three like clockwork. _Aren't we still like that?_ something inside Guy cried out, and he clenched his fists and turned his face away, long-overdue shame rearing up inside him because he knew that no, they _weren't_ still like that. They _couldn't_ be, not any more, even though the two of them actively wanted to keep going in that exact, innocent manner they'd once shared. That was nothing but naivete now, failing to take into account that their lives had become complicated with more work, incomprehensible emotions and those who inexplicably wanted to pry them apart; even if Thomas _hadn't_ disappeared this would have been a hard realization for both of them. With him totally unreachable, and with all hope of Roulé's aid extinguished, it was utterly devastating.

He had been totally blind to _all_ of it, and now it was too late.

Guy closed his eyes. A _sound_ \- deep and nerve-wracked, not quite a sob but filled with misery nonetheless - escaped him; he was _breaking,_ breaking into pieces, alas, and there was nothing he could do but to sink down onto his knees and clench his fingers against the soft carpet. " _Fuck_ ," he hissed through his teeth, and tried to carry on, but could come up with nothing else. It expressed what he was feeling, at least, if not quite as eloquently as he would have preferred.

His parents wouldn't be back for a while. He raised his head and winced as his body began to relax, the pain in his limbs from before returning with a sharp vengeance. _I need a bath_ , he thought vaguely, and for the lack of anything else to latch onto he managed to stand up with that as a directive. _I'm going to have a bath and maybe that'll make some of the ache go away... and then... I can think about what I'll do next._ But when the bathroom lights clicked on, it finally registered to him that he was a complete wreck. The bulb was too bright, and beneath it he felt too pale and washed out; he began to run water into the bathtub, and when he tugged his uniform jacket sleeves up he saw his wrists encircled in faint pink where Roulé had grasped them alongside the familiar aroma of pomegranate. He thought of how Roulé's wrists had pressed against his own, how his entire body had shoved him down with crushing force - the deceptively-delicate scent of the man's cologne was now a reminder of that, smeared all over the boy's uniform and rubbed onto his skin during their struggle. Only his already being in the bathroom kept Guy from losing it altogether, and even so, he was shaking uncontrollably as he undressed, tossing each piece of clothing as far away from himself as he could muster. Being nude made him feel more vulnerable (and he did grab a towel to counter this) but he wanted to be near those clothes far less. He would put them in the laundry when he was calmer and could bear to touch them again.

When that was done, he looked up and at the reflection of himself in the mirror. What he saw made him turn away just as quickly, dropping the towel and hurriedly covering his bare shoulders with his hands as he stepped into the bath. A haphazard pattern of small-but-intense bruises stood out on his skin, where Roulé had grabbed him and dug his fingers in earlier. He had reacted so badly to Thomas finding out about Roulé partially because he'd felt as if the other was insinuating that Roulé could not be trusted, or that he would hurt Guy in some way like the 'darkness' apparently had. And back then he'd found that an insult to both his and Roulé's integrity, he had believed so deeply that the older man would never do such a thing to him.

_I was wrong._

The sting of the hot water became too much and he flinched, scrambling for the cold tap and wincing away from where it was the hottest. He just couldn't get comfortable; his usually-preferred temperature felt too cold for him, anything hotter felt agonizing, and even after turning the taps off and submerging himself fully he couldn't get rid of Roulé's touch lurking beneath his skin. The bruises ached even more when the cool air hit them and Guy shuddered again, nearly in tears from the discomfort; within ten minutes he had resorted to sitting very still in the middle of the bath, knees drawn up to his chest and hunched over to stare blankly at the surface of the water. At least that way, he felt small and insignificant enough that nothing would waste its time hurting him.

He had been foolish. He had never stopped to consider how much danger he had been putting himself in, and now that it was coming at him, he was ill-prepared to deal with any of it. Worse, he had done so whilst mistreating both Roulé and Thomas; he hadn't _intended_ to, yes, but what use was talk of intention now? He'd acted and seen the consequences, it was too late for such regrets - only he alone could set right what had gone wrong, and that meant that he had to act again. It didn't matter that all he wanted to do was to run away, he had to do _something_.

Guy buried his face in his knees. _And he had absolutely no idea what to do._

"Help," his whisper echoed soft against the tiled walls, and faded away. "if there's someone... anyone who could help me, please..."

That plea drove it home, that he was well and truly helpless to do anything. A part of him still feebly hoped that there was an _explanation_ , that there was a reason that didn't involve magical disappearances for Thomas's absence; surely someone else apart from himself would have noticed that he was gone and that something was amiss. But at the same time, he was not Roulé - he could not do even a tenth of what the older man was capable of and no longer knew how to appeal to him for aid. Even if Roulé _hadn't_ cast him out, the true extent of what he was going through was far too vast to dismiss in favour of Guy's own problems; for God's sake, he had just seen the man being _killed_ , and not for the first time. The nightmarish images came back and he shook his head fiercely to disperse it.

"No," he moaned, clutching at himself ever tighter. "no... _no_..."

Guy had never truly feared death until this moment. Even then it was not his own that he was afraid of - no, he feared for _Thomas's_ life, he couldn't _not_ do so after seeing just how fragile the human body could be and the sheer amount of cruelty the world could inflict on someone, even those as formidable as Roulé. This loneliness he felt, it was not just from the absence of his family or even that of having been let go by Roulé - no, he had been in some way _destroyed_ , his other half torn away from him viciously and set apart where they could no longer feel each other, vulnerable and completely alone in the world.

A sob wracked his body, although he was far too traumatized for tears. He wanted nothing more than to wake up from this horrible nightmare.  
To think that on Tuesday he had resented Thomas out of childish annoyance, thinking that the younger boy had _deserved_ to lose Guy that evening; but he had been wrong, it was _he_ who had lost _Thomas_ , because he had pushed him away when his friend had needed him the most. Thomas had been spirited away to a realm that he could neither reach nor understand, and for all Guy knew he would never see him again because _it was all his fault_.

_Thomas... Thom, where are you...?_

" _I mustn't run away_! I mustn't run away... I mustn't be afraid, I mustn't be afraid, oh my God, I can't - shouldn't... I mustn't run away..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything about this chapter killed me dead, writing it, refining it, not spoiling it. All of it.  
> And sorry for not telling you earlier that Wanderjahre was a cosmic horror story I guess
> 
> * Guy and Laurent's notes translate to _'This is Laurent, have you talked with Thomas?' / 'No, I haven't seen him since Tuesday, I am worried about him' / 'Do you want to be left alone?' / 'Yes, please'._ The penultimate one I derived from the French translation of Greta Garbo's quote 'I want to be alone'.  
>  * The pomegranate incident happened to me, although it was not done with any lives on the line to the best of my knowledge. All I know was that it was a particularly delicious pomegranate and I lost half of it and it was sticky and all bloodlike and ew  
> * When you're friends with a literal genie-like figure who wants to make you happy and offers to grant you a wish, it might not be a good idea to say anything too casually around them.  
> * This will come into handy the next time you meet a genie, I'm sure.  
> * Remember that anything Crydamoure touches turns into a love potion? :o  
> * This chapter was chock full of the most difficult sequences I've ever had to write in Wanderjahre. I was shaking quite badly during the murder scene, certainly, and Roulé's subduing of Guy was _horrible_ to write. Now I believe is the time for me to come out and tell you that I do not support Roulé/Guy in any sexual manner whatsoever, and indeed have found suggestions regarding it _very disturbing_ ; please do not ask me to pair them again. I do not deny that there is affection between them, and that Roulé's morals are... _different_ , but it has nothing to do with sexual attraction. Roulé/Guy can only go horribly wrong. I couldn't spoil my feelings for it until this chapter.  
> * Roulé's penultimate message (the one before the one re: Thomas) is actually a poem. It is relevant to at least one interpretation of 'what he is'.  
> * I ran a semi-event of sorts a week or so ago challenging readers to guess what 'my favourite character in Wandejahre/Roulé's alternate form' was - it is none of the three main protagonists, nor Crydamoure, nor any other minor commonly-defined 'characters' in the story. No, my favourite character in the story is _Montmartre_. Roulé _is_ , in some sense, Montmartre; if you believe at this point that he might be a _genius loci_ , I think it would make sense. In the previous chapters I tried to emphasize that Roulé's environment is empathic to how he feels - his influence has some effect over how Montmartre and the Pigalle area treats Guy, and it is strong enough that the place has character of its own. I'll write a longer post about this later.  
> * Roulé holds the dubious honour of being the first character I ever wrote in the past ten years who was blessed with _both_ bold and italic text in dialogue. (All caps, too!) Should get him a medal or something.
> 
> One more chapter to go.  
> There are probably a lot of questions or comments to make regarding this whammy of a chapter - as I always say, please feel free to flood my tumblr ask box with questions (but [please use the Wanderjahre-specific one](http://wanderjahrethefanfiction.tumblr.com/ask)), or scream at me in the comments, and if I deserve kudos still... I certainly don't mind those, either, haha! Thank you, all. Please put faith in me at least one more time.


	9. Liebesfreud [END]

**Wanderjahre (Chapter 09/Epilogue) - ' _Liebesfreud_ '**

\------------------

The bruises faded away after his bath. Guy had left the tub after an hour or so and had been standing by the sink, water dripping down his hair and body and making no effort to dry himself, when it happened; he'd only been waiting for the steam to clear from the mirror, so that he could look at himself and see whether he looked presentable. He didn't _feel_ presentable, nor did he wish to see anyone - how unfortunate it was that he was loath to be alone, and yet still didn't want to be around others! - but he could at least pretend. Guy had wanted to see where exactly the bruises were, so that he could choose a shirt that would hide all of them properly; a sensible, if tragic goal, cut short as he looked up and was forced to confront his slowly-recovering and _completely unharmed_ reflection. The bruises were gone.

He rubbed at his eyes in disbelief and looked again, but they stayed gone. Not even rubbing the steam off completely from the mirror changed what he saw; he was slightly pink from the bath, and looked very distraught as he'd expected, yes, but the bruises on his shoulders were _just not there_. He raised a shaking hand to touch over his shoulders, unable to accept what he was seeing, and was twice surprised when touching over his skin brought forth a sharp twinge. So they (or 'their effects', rather) hadn't disappeared after all - it was just that the visible markings of what Roulé had done to him weren't there any more. The marks had stayed long enough for Guy to observe them himself, to give him a _warning_ , and with their job done they'd retreated back, leaving only agony in their wake.

Guy clutched the towel tighter around himself, almost feeling hysteria rising in his throat again. But as afraid as he was, he didn't give into the urge to turn away trembling this time around; the time for that was long past. What he did was to gaze fixedly down at the sink for a moment or two, taking a couple of deep breaths to compose himself, before he turned around and bent down to gather his uniform up in his arms. He made sure to check quickly in the pockets for any scrap paper or cash before depositing the shirt and jeans in the laundry basket; the tie and jacket he took with him as he left, throwing them into the open wardrobe the moment he entered his bedroom and promptly slamming the door shut. An action filled with more vitriol than necessary, but he hardly thought his reaction unacceptable at that point.

Roulé had been right. He _was_ just a boy, stranger to his own emotions, giving in so easily to extremities such as fear and anger. And now that the bruises were gone (at least on the surface), he was being reminded ever more acutely of the fact that he wasn't even in control of his own body; Roulé was in charge of that too, apparently, and had left him in private, incommunicable pain.

_Now I know what he feels like._

Muteness in a different form, Roulé's far more literal than his, but causing immense suffering just the same. He shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead firmly, feeling as if a migraine was coming on; the action jostled his collarbone and he winced as the bruises ached beneath the skin. What time was it now, did it even matter? His parents would be home soon, he knew that much, and get started on dinner right away; perhaps they were eating out or ordering a takeaway as they sometimes did on Fridays, but ultimately it didn't matter because he didn't _want_ dinner. That was the last thing he wanted now. He didn't really think that he could eat anything, ever again. So he went and shut the door completely - something he only ever did whilst sleeping or when he had music blaring in his room, the latter of which certainly wasn't the case now - and tossed the towel to the floor as he collapsed atop his bed.

_You'd think being dead would free you from the problems of the world, wouldn't you._

Out of every utterance he had made in his life, he hadn't ever expected _that_ to be the one that would haunt him. He shuddered heavily and lay there, a faint but persistent ringing in his ears growing louder in response to the silence. His hair was drying flat and stiff against the fabric of the pillow, dampening it somewhat, but he didn't have the presence of mind to do anything about it. Even through the late-spring weather it was cold around him - it felt as if Roulé's very presence had clung onto him, sucking all the heat out of the air. The vision of Roulé's murder replayed in his mind, just behind his eyelids; he could do nothing but let it loop, over and over again, until the images lost any semblance of reality. The horror and shock that he'd felt when first seeing it had faded away a while ago, back into the general realm of dubious-existence like most of the things he had seen Roulé do. Maybe that was worrying and indicated yet another thing broken about him, or maybe it was an ordinary coping mechanism to stop himself from going utterly insane with terror, he didn't know. But one thing was clear.

There was no way that he could come clean about what he had experienced with Roulé now. Not to his parents, his friends, Thomas (if he ever came back at all) - no one at all. He had well and truly isolated himself without meaning to and it was too late to turn back. Who would believe him?

"Thom..." he whispered. He had been intending to go on further, make a plea towards the younger boy to return, but the words died on his lips before he could voice them. "... I..."

_What can I even say to him at this point?  
I'm sorry? Come back? Do I even deserve him now?_

His eyes were fluttering shut. Guy took in a laboured breath and managed to tug the blankets over himself, burying his face into the pillow. His forehead felt hot, he was shivering and a cold sweat was breaking on his skin - he was caught between two worlds that had turned against him, and were now tearing him apart.

_I feel..._

_"... Thom..."_

_... numb..._

\-----

He was in his school uniform and lying on the floor of his bedroom. His record player was spinning next to him and he was staring up at the ceiling, his gaze tracing patterns against the wallpaper mindlessly, the music barely even crossing his mind. His left arm was bent and supporting the back of his head whilst his right was splayed out, and-

"- I like this one."

Guy didn't look around nor did he reply. He knew that voice well enough, so there was no need to do anything.  
A part of him protested this, but it wasn't enough to convince him to even twitch a finger in acknowledgment.

"It's a pretty one," the younger boy came into view, leaning over his face; he was just was bright-eyed and happy as always, his features glowing with life. Guy stared up at him, and felt a deep pang of what felt like nostalgia mingled with _resentment_ that Thomas could just come back looking like _this_ \- all this after having left him in such turmoil, making him go through all of those things for the younger boy's sake. "I always love your choice in music, Guy, so much. Might I be able to borrow this one for a bit? Please?"

Guy blinked a few times. A few strands of the lyrics managed to force their way through to his brain - _'where were you, when I needed you most... when I needed a friend...'_ \- and he inwardly smirked at the bitter coincidence of it. _The Innocents_ by Erasure was an album that he actually had while Thomas didn't, and although they'd never actually talked about it much, the younger boy wanting to borrow it wouldn't be out of the question. So really, he wasn't surprised, nor did he have a reason to be resistant to the idea of lending it out to Thomas. He opened his mouth, intending to answer in the affirmative, but what came out was this: "When you ask me tomorrow, I will have sold it."

Thomas stopped smiling, his cheerful expression freezing into one of confusion. Nowhere in his expression, though, could any anger or rightful outrage be found; no, he looked wounded, just like how he'd looked when they had last seen each other. It was odd to think that in a couple of days that would have been a full week ago. A full week, seven days and beyond stretching out into eternity without his best friend - and the moment they'd seen each other, he had gone and hurt Thomas _again_ , his complete lack of awareness tearing the other's heart into pieces once more. But he could never hurt Guy back in retaliation, and the moment this realization sank into his mind (for not even the first time) Guy snapped out of it, utterly aghast at what he had done-

"... T-Thom, I didn't-"

A horrific screech sounded from the record player, shattering the view in front of him. He cried out and reflexively shielded his face, clenching his eyes shut to prevent the shards from tearing into them - but nothing happened, only a heavy silence and a deep palpable darkness lay before him after that, so frightening that his inner voice commanded him to open his eyes and _look around_ so that he wouldn't be doing _nothing_ about this situation.

So he did. He awoke to a blurred, darkened image atop him; as he laid very still and stared, the focus sharpened to that of his room ceiling, followed by a thick pulse of uncomfortable heat near his forehead. He'd had a fever dream. _His own subconscious_ was tormenting him for having been selfish, his guilt manifesting into a physical sickness that would not go away until he could make amends.

Guy covered his eyes with his left arm. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. The only thing that remained was the stabbing pain behind his eyes, taunting him with the metaphysical possibility of tears. His forehead was burning up, he felt faint and sick, but his accursed mind alone remained clear; he wanted nothing more than to be unconscious again, but couldn't manage it, and for over an hour laid awake in agony before faltering back into a dazed sleep at the crack of dawn.

\-----

Where had he gone so wrong?

That was the primary question that haunted him through the weekend that followed. His fever disappeared completely during the two days, but while it was there it did a good job of keeping him housebound, free to ponder on that one question over and over again. He said very little during those two days, and physically did little, only eating and drinking in a few bites and sips now and then to keep himself going. His parents asked him questions, and he either could not or did not answer them - the ones about whether Thomas was all right applied to the former. He was half tempted to get them to call the police or something like that, and would have done so a long time ago, if not for knowing better about what Roulé was capable of.

On Sunday evening he managed to rouse himself and sit out in the garden. The evening was quiet with the smell of _pot-au-feu_ permeating the air; Guy had a garden swing that only came out during summer and early autumn, and it was there that he was sitting right now, rocking slowly back and forth. He had been nibbling lethargically at a _jambon-beurre_ that he'd made himself; a flock of doves gathered around him, pecking away at the crumbs, and he let them instead of chasing them away as he was wont to do. They really were quite pretty, if he stopped to look at them instead of treating them as unwanted company.

How strange and foreign it all was to think that he had school tomorrow. How odd it was to think that he had to go straight back to schoolwork and his German speaking exam in just over twelve hours' time, neither of which were things that he felt even remotely prepared for. He was a confident enough speaker that he could write up a presentation and memorize it for tomorrow - which was what he had done - but he didn't know whether he would be able to react properly to questions or pay attention to the role-playing segments, and couldn't bring himself to care very much. His phone calls had dwindled over the weekend, but he had still been trying enough to know that the younger boy remained gone and wouldn't be in school tomorrow. All his attempts and the heavy, oppressive silence at the end of the line only reminded him ever more painfully of his and Roulé's cruelty against Thomas, a boy whose only fault had been wanting to remain as his best friend - who had only wanted to _love_ him, as shy and unsure as he was, completely independent of whether Guy could return that love or not.

Had Thomas _demanded_ to be loved back equally, Guy might have had a case. He could not create romance nor sexuality out of thin air.  
But the fact of the matter was that Thomas had never demanded anything of him. No, he had indeed never even _expected_ anything of that sort of Guy, nor had expressed it at all. All he had truly wanted was Guy's continued friendship, which was a concept that the older boy most definitely understood; in that case, his failure to accommodate this incredibly-simple desire _was_ entirely his own. He had wronged Thomas not by being unable to reciprocate Thomas's closer feelings, but by being negligent to what had already been there.

If only he had faced that simple fact about himself before; _but then - then what?_

He'd finished most of the _jambon-beurre_ ; only a little bit of buttered bread remained in his hands, and he tore it to pieces before tossing them to the birds and leaning his head back, exhausted merely at the thought of all of this. He knew that he had to face those things, though, and that kept him going, as painful as he found the exercise.

They knew how to love. They knew less how to _be_ loved, how to see past clouded emotions and to the true epicenter of themselves where all those feelings arose. The only 'love' that Guy had accepted and known about fully so far had that been of his family's and the milder one of friendship - he'd never shied away from the mention of romantic love because it had never been his concern in the first place. He'd had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun, that it wouldn't just falter away into something else as the participants involved grew older; he did not know from an insider's perspective that love could have continuity or be depended upon beyond that. He knew nothing of the kind of love that Thomas had taken a step into, except that it happened to other people, and that it was none of his business - he'd been wrong, of course, he could not have ever hoped to be such an integral part of the other boy's universe and still be exempt from the existence of such feelings. But Guy was too young to have reflected on the nature of love in detail, and this would have held true even if he'd ever felt desire for someone else. Someone _else_ his age might well have fared better, but circumstances (some beyond his control) had made it so that both he and Thomas were too young to understand how to love _and_ be loved by each other.

But the love _was_ there. He wouldn't be hurting so badly otherwise.  
The love _was_ there, serving as the base for the thing that they both called friendship, but each understood a little differently. All the ingredients were there between them for the very basis of romantic, fatalistic love, one person and another against the whole world. A world crafted and held together only by two people, a world that would not exist if not for those two people and no more nor less. And when one of them failed the other...

"Oh, my God - _Guillaume_ ," he whispered, nails digging sharply into the palm of his hands. "you are - you're an _idiot_... I can't _believe_ -"

... and one of them would always fail the other, as he had.

And what of the other person who had needed him? What of Roulé - sweet, gentle Roulé, who'd ultimately wished to hurt no one and whose only crime had been daring to _want_? So what if he wasn't human; he still existed alongside Guy and everyone else, in pain and anguish, longing for happiness. He had slowly been allowing himself to think back to his last encounter with Roulé, even though it hurt him to remember, and he couldn't believe the way he had acted; the older man had done so much for him, antagonizing him would never have been the answer regardless of what had happened - and of course he'd had to go and do exactly that. Guy hadn't _started_ off that visit being completely helpless to do anything about the situation. He knew logically that lashing out against Roulé's actions, figurative violence against violence, would never have resulted in a good outcome. What had made him do that, anyway?

_Because I'm useless, that's what._

Guy sighed and lay down, right there, on the garden swing. He and Thomas could spend hours sitting on it, and having a painfully empty seat next to him only hurt him even worse; if this was the only way that he could fill it, then so be it. The _pot-au-feu_ would be a while; when it was ready he would have to go back inside and pretend to be a functional human being once more, then he would have to think of work. Until then, though, he had to focus on assuaging his pain in the most harmless way that he could think of, for he no longer trusted himself to take care of his own health.

\-----

_"... Findest du es richtig, dass Kinder zu Hause helfen müssen?"_

It was always going to be strange, how predictable school could be only during the times when he was distracted. His gut feeling about the exam had largely proved to be true; he rattled off the presentation easily and the roleplay too had gone okay, but his heart wasn't in it and he had no doubt that it showed in the tone of his voice. " _Ja, natürlich_ ," he murmured, and when the teacher gestured towards the tape recorder as a signal to speak louder, he did so _. "es ist das Richtige. Meine Eltern... erm, sie arbeiten den ganzen Tag."_

This teacher had had high hopes for Guy's abilities last year, when he and Thomas were both learning German in her class. This year he'd had a different teacher but he'd come across her again as an examiner - she was very stoic, almost to the point of coldness, but she was also extremely fair. It was just a pity that he was probably letting her down, too. He just couldn't focus. He would have embellished his answers further than this normally, but today, he wasn't feeling it.

_"Hast du Fragen?"_

_"Nein... nein, alles gut... Danke."_

She looked at him for a while. Then she reached out and turned the tape recorder off, pulling out the cassette tape and labelling it neatly with Guy's name beneath several others. He waited in uneasy silence, biting his lip very slightly; there was a hangnail by the side of his right thumb and he kept on fiddling with it because he had no idea what _else_ to do with his hands. Once the tape recorder was closed and pushed out of the way, the teacher turned to him again and folded her hands together on the table, surveying him with a severe expression on her face.

"Monsieur de Homem-Christo," she said, reverting back to French (and confusing the boy further, who suddenly had no idea whether he was still under exam conditions). "where _is_ Monsieur Bangalter right now?"

This was new. He'd never thought she would remember Thomas all this time, it'd been months since the younger boy had ever had true occasion to be in a German class. "I... I don't know," he was startled into replying nevertheless, taken aback at the thought that someone else was fully acknowledging Thomas as missing. "I haven't seen him for days now, I've... I haven't been able to contact anyone in his family... I feel like..."

 _I feel like almost everyone else straight up forgot about him_ , he wanted to say, but hesitated over it. Either way, the sentiment seemed to have gone through; the teacher nodded in understanding, and glanced at the clock briefly. "We're trying to get in touch with him as well. Rest assured that we don't think it's normal to have students going missing for days at a time."

"Yes," Guy replied numbly; how could he answer otherwise? Never mind that he had no idea what to follow it up with.

Her face softened a little. "I remember you always helping him with his work and the two of you talking over the lessons," Guy blushed darkly, downcasting his gaze. "you're probably wondering why I mentioned Monsieur Bangalter at all. I heard that he hadn't been coming to school for a while, and today you seemed unusually distracted. I'd assumed that those two things were connected - and I don't like to see my students so worried. There has been a simple miscommunication between his family and us, most likely, and I simply wanted to reassure you that no one's forgotten about him, and that we are trying to figure out what happened. _Das ist alles._ I have no doubts that he will come back."

It was easy for the teacher to say such things when she knew nothing of Roulé, of course. But Guy was suddenly and deeply grateful at how heartfelt those words were, nonetheless, he had needed someone to speak up about Thomas and tell him that what was happening wasn't normal. "... _Merci beaucoup_ ," he said, and ducked his head, unsure what else to follow it up with. "... I... I haven't been having a..."

She understood.  
"It's not your fault," she said gently, and nodded at him in dismissal. "feel free to go now, Guy, you did well. Try not to worry too much."

But he didn't go. He left the room with a thanks, yes, but 'going' meant heading back to the classroom or out to lunch, and he wanted to do neither of those things. Thankfully there was one last student waiting after him to do the exam, and they went into the room as he went sat back down on the chairs outside, affording him at least fifteen minutes of absolute peace. _Not my fault,_ he mouthed, and smiled sadly. _If only I could believe that._

She had given him one important thing to think about, however.  
'Miscommunication' was the key word, and while he hadn't thought it very important at the start, he slowly recognized that this was a problem with him that he had to solve in some way. So he couldn't magic Thomas back into existence, and for all he knew Roulé would try to harm him if he tried to enter Montmartre again, but those things pointed to a _larger_ problem that would continue to disrupt things for him if he didn't sort it out posthaste. Who was to say that those two would be the _last_ people he would hurt, if things carried on like this? Who knew if this wasn't going to happen again, over and over until he was left well and truly isolated, and all because he couldn't communicate properly?

No. No, he didn't want that.  
And what was the keystone of communication between two people who'd had a volatile encounter? Genuine, heartfelt apologies. He was overdue for two of them to those two people. The thought of running straight back into the figurative lion's den was utterly paralyzing - Guy did not wish to be harmed again, most certainly not - but there was a very strong difference between at least attempting to make an apology and never even trying because he was afraid to do so. The results might outwardly appear to be the same, but those were two different roads, as terrifying as they both were.

And he still had the choice.

"Well," he muttered to himself. "... whether it's the right or wrong road, it's still a road, and I'm on it."

_And there's no going back to fix whatever might have gone wrong.  
But you're still alive. You've got a lot of time ahead of you to act, and your actions matter as long as you do something, Guy-Manuel. _

He rummaged around in his satchel for his sketchbook, and flicked to the pages with Roulé drawn on them. That Roulé, the one embodied at the height of his blissful glory onto paper - that Roulé represented everything good about him, and even despite recent events he understood 'everything good' about the older man to be of celestial levels. He was too good to be a mere school-assignment portrait, too good even for Guy's own hand; the portraits of Thomas that he'd drawn were not as well-drawn, he really doubted that he could replicate something similar again. He'd thought about this before, but now that realization solidified into a decision: he needed to give those sketches back to their rightful owner. That was going to be a step towards fixing this situation, no matter how small it was.

It was as if a map had unraveled in his mind. Most of it was folded and out of sight still, but there was a visible corner and he was upon it. He had the vaguest idea of his destination - wherever Thomas was, so that he could seek him and bring him back - but had no idea where that exact point would be, and thus knew only too many routes that he could take. There were so many that he would be overwhelmed to the point of shutting down again if he thought about it too much, which was about as good as knowing no route at all; he didn't know where he was being led, nor whether there was a tangible, existing place that he could go to to solve this problem. There was so much that he could not change, him only being the schoolboy that he was.

But he could prepare for the journey all he wanted. He did not think that he had _much_ time to do so, but then, he doubted that he truly needed all that much. Guy stood up, shouldered his satchel and took a deep breath. As lost as he was, he wasn't completely helpless, and he would prove it. If he couldn't, no one could.

\-----

Once he'd formed a plan, what he ought to do became steadily clearer in his mind, and he got to it straight away.

His friends would have appreciated his presence, but they did not require it immediately, not after being aware of Guy's distress over the situation. They were good friends, understanding ones, far too good for what he deserved - Guy felt that way, even if no one else did - and it was with regret that he made his way to the library instead of joining them for lunch once he'd left the building.

There were a few scissors, a large red stapler, paperclips and some tape available in the library. Guy found himself an unoccupied table and pulled out his sketchbook, flipping briskly to the two pages with Roulé drawn upon them before cutting them out carefully with the scissors. When the edges of both sketches had been straightened out, he emptied out his new clip file and inserted the two pages in it, tucking them into the clear plastic and clipping them securely to the spine; they now looked genuine, not quite in their proper place just yet but being _displayed_ just as they should have been all along. Satisfied, he cleaned up his sketchbook and the little scraps of paper lying on the table before leaving the library, the bells ringing for the next class the moment he walked into the room.

He had just three hours left to go.  
After this, he would go straight to Montmartre. The schedule he'd gotten accustomed to told him that Roulé only expected him after five o'clock on Mondays, but there was little time to waste; he'd already fallen so out of favour with the older man that what the schedule told him was almost meaningless. There was a risk that he would be with a client, but if that was the case then he would simply sit there and wait until Roulé came home, alone or not, or opened the door, alone or not. He was going to present to him his terms, and just in case that the other no longer had much time to spare for him, he knew that he had to be able to condense his appeal into something short and to the point. He could do that.

Before anything, he wished to apologize. Then he'd hand the sketches over to Roulé, alongside the book that the older man had lent him a while back, just so that there was no debts owed on either side to each other. Then he'd make clear that he would look for Thomas, and if possible, to have the younger boy returned to him - though he was prepared for the possibility that Roulé wouldn't co-operate. The focus was on the fact that Guy could not just leave certain aspects of their relationship hanging; if he were to repair it, he had to apologize, and if it was to remain broken, it had to be a _clean_ break.

Art was his last class of the day, but in a stroke of good luck (in Guy's perspective, at least), their teacher was absent and they were free to go home as long as they handed their sketchbooks in first. Quite a few people had already come by to pile up their sketchbooks on the teacher's desk when Guy entered the room; he took his out, opened it to the pages where he had drawn Thomas (his heart ached again, looking at him) and laid it facedown on top of the pile. _You missed your deadline, Thom,_ his inner voice lamented along with him. _You never miss deadlines but now you have and I - I don't know what to make of it, I'm so lost without you._ But he couldn't stay and mourn there forever, so he only allowed himself that much as he left the school grounds. There was so much for him to do and try before he could even think of wallowing in useless despair - that was of no help to anyone. As he headed down the steps of Villiers Station and past the barriers, he went over his plan again; the train came and he boarded it, gradually feeling the sensation of something _sinking_ inside him, resulting in a melancholy calm both immensely welcome and yet heartbreaking. Guy had come to owe Roulé a great many things during their acquaintance, and the older man claimed to owe him a great deal as well; he would likely never be able to repay everything, but if these sketches and what he planned to speak of all went as planned, he would have paid back _something_ of value to the other.

Which was just as well, as the sinking feeling within him slowly became that of _finality_ as the minutes ticked by. He did not _wish_ for this encounter to be the last time, but knew very well that it _could_ be. He had to steel himself. As the doors slid open, he stepped out with newly-assumed confidence - closed his eyes right there on the platform, his lips moving in a brief prayer addressed to no one but himself and Roulé - and began making his way towards whatever was to come.

_Please be there._

He had expected to be met with resistance, and he was proved entirely correct, though thankfully not to the scale that he had feared. The wind reared up the moment he left the station, pushing him back almost imperceptibly with every step he took towards Roulé's apartment. The breeze was gentle but very firm against his cheek, and at one point he felt as if a speck of dust had gotten into his eyes, which forced him to stand still and blink rapidly for a minute or two to ease it out.

_Please hear me out._

But his will was stronger. He approached slowly, but with determination that he'd never previously thought himself to be capable of, and by the time he'd walked half the needed distance the wind had died down altogether. Montmartre was aware of his presence, but was resisting it no longer, even if not welcoming per se. The streets were crowded - he could sense the gazes of a few upon his back as he passed, some merely curious, some almost lecherous as a byproduct of the area's reputation - but he pressed onwards without looking back at anyone else. He could only hope that this meant that Roulé was in a good mood, and even if not that specifically, that the man wasn't completely adverse to his presence.

He was very nervous. Frightened, even, almost out of his mind. He did not feel brave in the slightest, and with every step he took pride in, the temptation he felt to turn away increased just as much. But at the same time - although he didn't know this - it would have indicated something _negative_ about his understanding of the situation if he'd approached it with unwarranted bravado. As conflicted as he was, Guy would not have been very brave in reality if he'd _felt_ brave and unstoppable whilst walking into Roulé's abode.

He was terrified, but carried on _anyway_ , and that was what ultimately made him a noble human being.

_Please put faith in me, Roulé, one more time._

\-----

Thinking was one thing, though, and actually asking was something else. (Though it would have been also false to claim that Guy _had trouble_ doing the latter.) He arrived at the apartment building with no trouble, heading up the stairs and announcing his presence clearly with a few knocks; Roulé opened the door, and almost immediately stepped backwards, turning away as if to shut it again in the boy's face. "I don't plan on staying long," Guy said briskly, resting one hand firmly against the door to prevent the other shutting it. "I just had to tell you and give you something - and then I'll go. I don't need anything else, Roulé. Please let me come in."

He walked into the apartment without further pause, and was not deterred. He hadn't given Roulé any opportunity to turn him down in his request, after all. But he knew that he wasn't welcome for long, if at all, and was quiet and stiffly-polite as he walked towards the living room and sat down on the sofa. He wouldn't move from there until the older man joined him; he wouldn't plead or hurry Roulé, but he had no intent of budging until then, either. Clearly the other hadn't been expecting it - he blinked and stared at Guy for a moment, a shadow of innocent confusion flickering across his face. But he also did nothing to stop Guy, looking only for a moment as if he wanted to protest. But he didn't do so in the end, merely sighing before closing the door.

There was a meal laid out on the table; he'd interrupted Roulé's dinner. It was beef bourguignon, gorgeously plated with a richly-scented wine gravy and speckled with pearl onions and potatoes on the side. There was a half-filled tumbler of whiskey and ice next to his plate, and also a small bowl of what looked like mint sorbet. (Guy wondered if it didn't melt, but considering what Roulé did to his surrounding temperature, perhaps it was an unfounded worry.) Unlike all the other times that he had been there, he did not offer Guy anything; he simply sat back down and resumed his meal.

So that much was on _his_ terms. That was fine. Being back here again and being so ignored by Roulé hurt, but Guy kept silent, and carried on looking towards the wall as he waited.

He was there for a while. Roulé ate slowly, again making no sound nor changing his expression at any point to indicate his opinion on the food. A few bites at a time followed by a pause and a customary sip of the whiskey, with that blank look never leaving his face - Guy knew, as he managed to steal glimpses of the other's expression - it was all very uncanny, _mechanical_ almost, though at the same time it was completely unsurprising. Back when he had first met Roulé, the other's table manners had been a matter of quaint, eye-catching curiosity. Now it made for a sight almost tragic, because he knew that such routines made no real difference to the older man - the food would always grow cold before he was done with it. It wouldn't matter to him what he drank with it, how hot the food had been to begin with, or how fast he ate; short of actually having a perpetual flame beneath his plate to keep it warm, it would cool and grow bland in his mouth. To Roulé, this was a meal just as tasteless and pitiful as the countless other meals that he had taken in previous decades.

"... I figured that you already know what I wanted to talk to you about," he spoke up to fill the silence. Perhaps Roulé was listening to him, perhaps not. "part of, anyway. Thomas. I don't know what to say about whether I want your help or not, though, if I'm being really honest. You _could_ help me. I never asked you what the break you gave Thomas even was, and looking back on it now, I really should have. What's past is past, though - you've been gracious enough to let me back in here, so should I ask you now when I have the opportunity?"

There was no reply, nor the slightest recognition that he'd ever said anything. Guy sighed.

"... No," he said quietly. "no, it wouldn't be worth it. Not now."

Silence. Roulé took a sip out of his whiskey. Guy waited until he heard the glass clinking against the table to continue.

"Once there was an opportunity for me to ask you that - and I lost it. I know I did. For all I know me being an idiot put him directly in a worse position, and that'd be my fault. But you misinterpreted me, too. I was panicking and distressed over what Thomas's feelings meant for our relationship, and for myself as well, when I said that I wanted the problem to go away. I think you should grant me that much, that I made an understandable mistake. It doesn't make what I did afterwards any more forgivable, but I feel like we need to get that straight. Well, there it is, now. So no, I'm not trying to ask you for help or to beg."

Cutlery was put down with a decisive clink on the plate, which was then pushed away as the older man picked up the bowl of sorbet and stared listlessly into it. Guy turned his gaze back to the empty tumbler. The implications of Roulé drinking whiskey only dawned upon him then. Guy had been offered drinks such as champagne, wine or coffee whilst visiting this place, but never hard liquor of any sort. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his age or his capabilities, and everything to do with Roulé's state of mind; by going from wine to whiskey, he had gone from warm hospitality and greetings to wanting to forget. As he kept on watching Roulé stood up, headed back to the kitchen, and pulled out a half-empty bottle to refill his tumbler with. It was already a largeish bottle, and Guy somehow knew straight away that he'd been drinking little else but whiskey for the past few days, even becoming aware that the older man was becoming sadder by the minute at the lack of any positive effect on him. It was heartwrenching, but he had to carry on.

"I... _choose._ I choose to believe that both you and Thomas were only looking out for me. I choose to believe that he's safe. I choose to believe that you didn't harm him. And... and I choose to believe that I have _some_ control over this situation. That I'll find him and take him home. That I won't let him go ever again, not after all this, unless he himself _wants_ to be let go. That's what I wanted to say. I'm not going to ask that you help me or anything... that's just being childish, as you said, and - and that's not what he needs. I messed up, so I need to pull my weight first. I know that now."

"..."

"So it's not you. It's me. It really _is_ me. I've thought about this all weekend and - and I think... it's not that Thom must come back _to me_ or that you have to do something _for me_. So I'll go to him, but before that, I've come to apologize for what I ruined. And I'm going to step up and take responsibility instead of expecting you to fix everything, or for circumstances on Thomas's end to turn."

Guy wasn't used to talking for this long and without any prompting whatsoever. At least during the couple of soliloquies he had had to make in Roulé's presence (one about Thomas, one about his problems) he'd had the reassurance of seeing the older man nodding at certain parts, tilting his head, or leaning forwards to show interest. Right now he honestly felt as if he were talking to himself in an empty room and it was a very unsettling feeling, though he knew he had to persevere.

"I can do it," he said, and nodded determinedly, looking in Roulé's direction. "I just wanted to tell you that."

_That's me done. Now it's up to you._

Roulé took his time with 'his turn', so to speak. He sat there and finished every bit of his sorbet, staring ahead blankly as if Guy didn't exist, and when he was done he washed it down with yet another inch of whiskey before standing to do the washing up. These were all homely noises that served to fill the silence, the sound of running water temporarily bringing relief to Guy's mind, but the more time passed the more the lack of communication weighed heavily in his heart. (At least he was learning something from even this, he consoled himself, this must be what people who had ever been on the receiving side of his neglect must have felt like.) To save himself the agony he closed his eyes and bent his head, steepling his hands together - it was quite a while before he looked up again and discovered Roulé staring at him from the doorway of the spare room.

When their gazes met, the older man beckoned him inside with a quick gesture, and entered into the darkness. What he had experienced in there made him reluctant to follow, but he did so after taking in a deep breath to steel his nerves. When he approached he found Roulé sitting on the piano chair, facing the blank wall, and managed to muster up the nerve to join him. "... Yes?" he asked softly. Roulé made no attempts to reply, but merely looked down at him with deep sorrow pooled in his eyes; his lips quirked in the merest ghost of a smile, one that wasn't _meant_ in any sense of the word, and he let out a soft sigh before drawing Guy closer to him with one arm. When Roulé's hand rested on his shoulder Guy couldn't stop himself from flinching, the movement agitating his bruises, and was immediately ashamed - but the older man didn't seem to notice, and carefully rested his arm around the boy's waist before reaching up with his free hand. With pen poised elegantly in his hand he began to write directly onto the wall, his every word thoughtful, slow and even with the aid of punctuation in certain places, and Guy watched.

He had seen several of Roulé's stream-of-consciousness, fast-paced, disjointed 'confessions' before.  
This was less a confession than a story, but as long and painful it was, he could not bear to see Roulé stop it. A few times the older man paused and stared at a blank space, seaching for the exact word, and (though he didn't interrupt) Guy silently prayed under his breath for him to be able to go on whenever it happened.

[my mistake was love and my penance was pain  
a fire was lit inside me one day a desire i never knew before  
and believe me, you must believe me, i was so happy for a time.  
he and i were matched and we loved as if the sun shone only for us

it did not last and perhaps i should never have expected it to last  
but that was hard to accept and even to this very day i refuse to accept it  
it doesn't help that the love remains, only i am broken beyond repair, cast downwards into earth  
cursed to remember that my existence was once perfect and to hope that i may become so again one day

and unto this life i was reborn into this world full of crude hate and joy  
into this universe a paradoxical perpetual-motion machine lost in a shared dream  
a blank canvas of a human being ready to accept whatever trait painted or written upon it  
so laid bare i stayed still breathed in and out and took note of the weights of everyone/everything upon me

over time my self-destruction was elevated into an art form beyond imagination  
years passed by faster as the pain took over and nothing truly seemed to matter any more  
forgotten and abandoned, alone as i was, somehow that always hurt worse than anything else done to me  
and i closed my eyes and said: be still my world, my long-suffering heart, i am here, notice me or else erase me.

i have seen many things that most do not notice and don't doubt that there is more to see  
the slow dissolving of the great design all beautiful emotion melded within it collapsing into null  
and they do not understand. you do not understand.  
pitiful creatures you are, we are, as separable as night and day and conflicted like it

this is your reality. breathe in it, question it, but believe in it, it is all you have.

young and blind to the ways of the world you think you will stay that way forever but i know the truth  
one eventually turns away from all that used to be dear to them to drink the waters of lethe  
innocence lost and decayed less of you surviving every year and they like to call that progress  
this is where life begins and this is where fantasy ends

i have dreamed of my own impossible death and the silence that would follow it  
i have dreamed of waking in a world of new light, a world of colour, meaning and love  
when my lover is absent i can hold onto those dreams instead they are both just as intangible  
it was the actual ability of myself to hold onto you that embraced my heart with breathless delight

if what is lost is not found my world shall never be righted again  
i have known this for a long time your appearance gave me hope for a moment  
you and the one who is lost to me are more similar than you could ever comprehend  
the warmth of you, the touch of your hand, your gaze was endlessly precious, i held onto them, onto you.

but time only rushes forwards where we are and that is the cause of all our sorrows  
and all it takes is a split second of decision or indecision a minute shall reverse  
you and i could never have kept up this façade i am not surprised you were the first to break it  
what i mistook for ecstasy around you was simply the absence of grief

perhaps forgetting would have done me good perhaps i ought to have walked away a long time ago  
yet it would not have been worthwhile, no, it would not have been worth the while.  
what does it matter that poor, unhappy roulé was ever alive in this world?  
what does it matter that our light will gleam only for a moment before becoming endless night?

why is it that one has to suffer so much before learning that the measure of love is loss?]

_Oh._

He closed his eyes, feeling a deep pang of regret in his heart.

_Oh, Roulé..._

Roulé dropped his writing arm. His head drooped forwards, him breathing out shallowly as if exhausted. For a second or two Guy feared that he had seen tears glimmering in his eyes again, but he looked up again and the illusion was gone. The older man had nothing left in him now, no reassurance nor hope, only sustained by the empty shell that he occupied; the boy looked back at the words, silently taking them in, then back at Roulé. Through the other's ethereal beauty he had never seen how poor in health Roulé really was, looking merely inches away from physical and mental emaciation, his true state having been covered up by the introduction of Guy into his life.

He meant just as much to Roulé as he had meant to Thomas, if not more. One more thing that he hadn't realized until it was too late.  
Why his world revolved so closely around him and his affections, he still didn't truly know, but he could understand. _It was his world_. It was filled with the people who were kind to him, who liked him and loved him in return, and it was not hubris or falsity to claim that one truly _belonged_ in such a world. It was not selfish to acknowledge Thomas and Roulé's feelings towards him and speak out loud - _I am loved_ \- and it was not selfish of him to be unable to tie that back to romance or some other grand expectation, if he could still give them all that he could, and did so.

_If what is lost is not found, my world shall never be righted again._

Roulé spoke not of 'that which was lost' or 'had been lost', but of 'what is lost'. His choice was entirely true and deliberate - he had lost it a long time ago, but it was not the _past_ to which this loss belonged. It was the _old present_ , the old loss wounding him fresh and raw each day, preventing him from ever moving on. Why, it was entirely possible that he was slowly and steadily losing more of himself with time, decaying as he struggled against this one loss in futility; he had been on this earth for a long time, clearly, who other than Roulé himself truly knew how long he had been suffering for? His one week without Thomas was almost nothing in comparison.

"The measure," he whispered out loud. "... the measure of love... is loss."

But that was not to say that his week was worth nothing, just because Roulé had suffered for longer. They had both lost and had been hurt as a result - and with any luck, Guy was learning the same things that Roulé had done a long time ago. "Thomas isn't like anyone else in the world," Guy said, and stood up. _"... viens avec moi, Roulé, s'il-te plaît?"_

The older man nodded and stood up also; he didn't take Guy's hand when offered, but followed him outside, into his bedroom and towards the balcony, gazing listlessly at the outside and then back at the boy as if to question what he was trying to do. "All of those people," Guy said, gesturing to the streets and the cars beneath. "I don't know them and they don't know me. There was a time when Thomas and I were complete strangers to each other - we've lived close to each other all our lives, and probably passed each other in the street, in the shops... anywhere. We might have sat next to each other in the Metro or in the bus and we simply wouldn't have realized. All of this is hypothetical because we don't know and we won't ever know whether we were there all along for each other, or if we had to meet as if by fate during German class. Until then he was nothing to me. I didn't know of him, he didn't know of me, we were only _strangers_ like the hundreds and thousands of people out there right now."

Silence. The look on Roulé's face was pensive, almost distant to such an extent that Guy wondered whether he was listening at all or just deep in thought. "I couldn't die for them," he went on quietly nevertheless, gazing down at the view. "any of them. No matter how beautiful they were, or how kind someone told me that they were, or what commendable things that they might have done in their lives. President Mitterrand himself could be walking down there right now, so could Thomas's and my favourite bands, and... and even then, you'd have a hell of a time convincing me that they're worth the kind of devotion I feel towards Thomas. And to all of them, he probably looks to them like what he is on the surface - just a plain fifteen-year old boy," Roulé closed his eyes and looked away, anguished at how Guy talked so passionately about the younger boy (though he seemed too sad to be _resentful_ ). "but I made him my friend and now he's unique in all of the world. It took those past few days for me to really think about it, and understand - I'm not convinced that I do entirely, but I certainly do more than before. He's more important to me than all of those other people because it - it was he whose homework I helped him with, because he's the one who lends me his records, because it's he who listens to me, he who puts up with me whenever I'm not being a good friend, he who... who loves me and wants the best for me... and... and always forgives me in the end. Because it's he who I think about all the time and regret being unable to return his feelings, because he's the one I would suffer for, many times over, despite all of that. Because he's _my Thomas_."

He paused.

"... And no one can truly take him away from me."

There he stopped, and glanced down at the streets as he got his thoughts together again. He didn't want this to come across as a challenge to Roulé's authority; thankfully that didn't seem to be the case, and while the older man looked far from happy about the situation, he seemed willing to accept the other's point of view. That was all that was required of him, really. He didn't expect Roulé to magically bring Thomas back, or to disclose exactly what about the younger boy that he found so painful to discuss.

"That's why I believe that you never harmed him," he resumed. "and that you kept him safe, too, if you really were deeply involved in this. You wouldn't have harmed him because you _couldn't_ \- you're far too decent to have ever _wanted_ to hurt me - and because of that I was wrong to have accused you. And... I'm sorry," Guy took a deep breath, feeling choked up all of a sudden, before continuing. "I always ask favours of you and give so little back, if anything at all. But that whiskey. Please pour me some, just a little bit. From the exact bottle you poured yours from. My body's too weak compared to yours, so I know that I won't be able to handle very much of it, but I want - I want to have shared _something_ with you again."

Neither of them moved for a while. Guy kept his gaze fixed on the outside while Roulé looked at the boy with an impenetrable expression upon his features - he might have been staring in disbelief, sadness or distaste for all the other knew. It was Guy who made the first move and turned to meet Roulé's eyes, silently trying to reassure the older man of his sincerity, and it worked. Roulé downcast his eyes, hesitated as if he were trying to say something, then turned away towards the kitchen; he came back with a clean tumbler and the bottle of whiskey, and poured some into the glass a centimeter high before handing it over to Guy, who took it and drank it down on the spot. Hesitation had no place in mending bridges. The whiskey burned strong in his throat, but it wasn't his first time drinking hard liquor, and the significance of what he was doing was far more important to him than his temporary discomfort, anyway.

" _Merci_ ," Guy nodded after downing the liquor, putting the tumbler aside. His cheeks were slightly pink, but he ignored their heat and beckoned Roulé inside the spare room again, picking up his satchel from the ground. "I'm not sure if I can express how much that meant to me, but... it did. It really did. And now I'm close to outstaying my welcome, so I'll go," he pulled out the transparent clip file and handed it to the older man, who took it from him with a puzzled look on his face. "the sketches I did of you... I've been thinking about them for a while. Today was when the assignment was due in and I thought about handing those in, and I - I couldn't. I might have drawn them but they aren't mine to just do anything I wanted with them. They're _yours_ and have been from the start, that's why I came here today. To return everything to its rightful place."

Roulé glanced down at the sketches, flicking back and forth between them before raising his head. "I'm going now," Guy continued briskly, shouldering his satchel and buckling it shut again. "Thomas's father has a studio in Montmartre so I'm going there first to see if I can find out anything - if not - well, I'll start from there. So I might not see you again for a while, but if I am forgiven, just a little, Roulé... please don't reject me altogether when I come back, even if we can't be exactly the way we were before," he took a deep breath. "and... and you... You can run away too. Any time... you want. I'll go looking for you, no problem."

Roulé's eyes widened. Guy stayed just long enough to see the effect that his words had had on the older man, and quietly excused himself, moving towards the doorway and feeling a little abashed all of a sudden.  
He didn't get very far. There was a slight scraping noise as the folder was set down behind him, followed by a soundless rush and a breeze of cool air as Roulé hurried up to him and grasped his shoulders. "Yes?" he asked, knowing exactly what; he was being requested an explanation. "... I meant what I said, if that's what you're asking... What you said before, about not being able to run away because you live alone... running away implies that there is a place that you belong to, that other people recognize that you belong to, _and_ that you've willfully run from it, right? That's what you meant. As you said, it's - it's a matter of possibility," Guy paused, and lightly bit his lip.

"... And I'm saying... _impossible n'est pas francais_. You... _belong_. I don't know if you _want_ to belong, but... you do belong. _Here._ And if you were gone I'd notice. If you ran away - yes, if you did, I'd inform someone that you went missing so that someone else knows that you're not home. _Then_ you'd actually have run away, not just off traveling somewhere or having moved houses, what the _hell,_ and I'd go out to find you so that I can make sure that you come back safe. Because - because, I don't want you lost, all right? Because I don't want _anyone_ to be lost and alone."

There he nodded hastily before attempting to take another step forwards. Roulé held him back again, his grip now oddly desperate.  
He was going to have to explain himself further. This was what he had wanted - he had been banking on giving Roulé a mystery of his own to mull over and hopefully stop him for explanations. He could only hope to not let the older man down. "... You and I... you've given me some odd experiences. Plenty of beautiful ones, but also plenty of which were not. But it's not the content that matters as much, you see, they were between _us._ No other person could have given me the same experiences, and let me learn the exact same things, _because they aren't you_. And that... that makes the experiences perfect the way they were. Maybe they could have been happier or better, but when they actually occurred you were the one going through them with me and that matters to me, Roulé, that matters a lot. There could only be one you and that's you, right in front of me, the person I recognize as Roulé..."

He was being stared at, he could tell. "I have a responsibility to you, too, like I have a responsibility towards Thomas," he murmured, and then said a little louder: "... he's _my_ Thomas, and I love him just the way he is... so all good and bad aside, _you're_ mine too, Roulé..."

Roulé gasped behind him; Guy couldn't hear it, but sensed the movement well enough. He took a deep breath, before letting the final words fall.

"... I love you, too..."

When the words left his lips, he clutched his hand to his chest for a moment, disbelieving of the fact that he had actually expressed such a thing and had _meant it._ He had never dreamed that his first 'I love you' to anyone (besides his family members) would be directed towards Roulé out of all people, but his feelings were true; he _loved_ Roulé, pure and simple, neither in a lustful nor desirous way but as if they were traveling companions whose worlds orbited around each other hand in hand. Only then did he dare to look back properly - and was greeted with the older man throwing his arms around him in a powerful embrace. The force of his gratitude was such that Guy even _forgot_ to be startled. He was smiling, his eyes wide and bright with unshed tears; he was looking at Guy as if time was nothing but a conduit, as if all the love in the world was his again. It was such a vibrant expression, filled to the brim with unbridled joy and the most heart-rending beauty, that he actually could not bear to look at him any longer out of the fear that he would cry.

"Poor Roulé," he whispered, tears prickling at his eyes; he reached for and tightened his grip on the other's hand. "... poor, unhappy Roulé...!"

But no, there was no need for pity any more. Roulé shook his head; that sad, but genuinely-relieved smile persisted on his lips as if to reassure him; what Guy had said had been an antidote, a few simple, truthful words leading something to become _fixed_ within him. It was evident in the look in his eyes. He stepped back slightly from the embrace to allow himself to stroke over Guy's hair, brushing it back with one hand, before he leaned down - and _kissed him._

Static and softness sweet and heavy like a dream swirled deep within him, then rose up rapidly at the contact. Guy's eyes widened into the kiss, before they fluttered shut almost out of reflex. Roulé's arms were around him, more guiding and full of comfort rather than passionate, but - oh, this heat, this _liquid warmth_ spreading hot and fast throughout his body, it was wonderful. Having never kissed anyone like this before, he didn't quite know what to make of the idea of _returning_ it, but there was no need to worry. Roulé led the way, his mouth so soft that it could barely be felt at first; it was with the utmost gentleness that he coaxed the boy's lips apart and _sighed_ gently against them, imprinting a deep, intense ecstasy _upon_ his lips, sinking deep beneath the skin. His heart was beating faster and faster and he could barely breathe, it felt so _good_ \- good in a way that _healed_ , in a way that braced itself against his shoulders and told him that he could lay down his burden now, because everything was going to be all right.

But even through this intoxicating delight, Guy was aware that Roulé was moving _away_ from him. From an embrace they had gone to a kiss performed with their upper bodies leaning towards each other, as it was the best way to account for their heights, but now - now the older man had let go of his hand, in a manner apologetic but firm. This was not a kiss of romance and desire. It was a _life-and-death_ kiss, a _farewell_ kiss, infinite gratitude mixed amongst the hard realization that their time together was up.

"Rou... lé..." Guy breathed tearfully against the other's mouth, cut off with another quick press of his lips. "I... I can't... I _can't_... _oh_..."

The kiss was broken despite his protests, as it was meant to be all along. Roulé's eyes fluttered open to meet Guy's own, searching deep inside him for a long time before he smiled. In a marvelous and utterly heartbreaking gesture, he touched his forehead against Guy's and mouthed: _thank you._

"... R-Roulé...?"

 _Go back to your world, Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo,_ Roulé breathed in his ear; soundless as he was, in that one moment Guy could _hear him_ for the first time, and to his immense shock found his voice almost identical to the low, soft, dulcet stutter of Thomas, if a little deeper and more harmonious than it. It was not a _spoken_ voice, but rather echoed within his head like a melody, an old memory, painting the darkened corners of his mind with light again. _It was wonderful having you with me, but you have your own world to live in, and that is not here; I must let you go and I shall, for that is the only right path._

"But I don't want you to go," he cried. "don't leave me, _please_!"

 _Adieu, Guy-Manuel._ Roulé kissed his forehead. _Adieu, mon petit-prince, adieu._

" _Wait_!"

He reached out desperately, trying in vain to grasp at the older man. But Roulé easily stepped back out of reach, standing tall and full of joy, beaming at him as he had never suffered a day in his life; he held out his hand to deter the boy from coming closer, and Guy suddenly became aware of how bright it was around them, despite the spare room and Roulé's apartment in general being devoid of light. Blinking in hurried confusion he looked around frantically, trying to find the source of the light before a gust of wind buffeted around his body, rustling at his uniform so fiercely that he cried out and reflexively shielded his face. Even despite this the vision of Roulé came through, scintillant and at peace - and then - oh, how _could_ he describe it? - the older man took a deep breath, tilted his face towards the ceiling, breathed out - and the world around him _blossomed_.  
There was no other way to describe it. It was as if a flower had burst into full bloom right in front of his eyes, a despairingly beautiful sight splashing their surroundings golden. A new world was unfolding in that instant, the song of the old and dying world whispering long-forgotten melodies into his ears, and for a moment Guy had the crystal-clear image of the first time he and Thomas had met, how the younger boy had pushed his desk adjacent to his and stuck out his hand with a cheeky grin - _'Guy-Manuel, isn't it?'_ \- and the subsequent boyish warmth that had followed that memory as he'd taken hold of that hand. Four whole years ago, long enough for them to have rethought their lives four times over, and this time the very angel of rebirth itself was there to aid their way.

This was a rapture beyond what he could handle; his senses had overloaded several minutes ago, he had long since stopped feeling his limbs, or even emotion beyond that sharp, agonizing euphoria. A quiet moan escaped him and he clutched at his chest almost as if to defend, feeling as if his heart had been pierced with a sudden, painful joy; he felt his knees buckle, but before he could collapse he was promptly swept up bridal-style and held securely in Roulé's arms. With desperation he clung to the older man, burying his face into the crook of his neck and throwing his arms around him to hold tight. Roulé smiled down at him - he could feel it, although he didn't dare look up, the sight would be so beautiful that it would make him cry - and began to carry him out of the spare room, past the doorway and into the apartment now illuminated with sunset-

_I release you now, I release you both, to become one with your world again._

\- Roulé was glowing with life in the way that Guy had seen only _once_ before, as he carried and took him forth into heavenly light-

_He'll reach out to you first._

\- and then, and _then_ , an intense warmth caressed and enveloped his body, buffeting about him and tangling pleasantly in his hair, righting everything that had gone wrong with naught but a soft sigh.

_Remember to hold his hand this time._

Guy couldn't keep his eyes open. He didn't _want_ to give up and lose consciousness, nor did he want to be let go, but the gentle echo of Roulé's voice, increasingly feather-soft, hypnotic and warm like a down blanket, proved to be too much in the end. Guy was trembling, unable to react to the other's voice with anything more than a soft gasp; the last thing he felt was a cool breeze tickling over his cheek, and the touch of the older man's fingers sweeping his hair from his forehead - then his head drooped onto Roulé's shoulder, and he knew nothing more.

\-----

When Guy came to at last, he was still in the apartment, though Roulé was nowhere to be found.

A street pigeon was cooing, perched by the balcony, its calls sweet and mournful. The first thing the boy did, the moment he regained consciousness, was to lethargically raise his left arm to check the time; six forty-four, long past the time he was due back home. This would have worried him any other time, but so much had happened to him that day in such a short amount of time that something like this seemed relatively trivial; he kept his eyes closed and let his arm drop, feeling his watch slide down his wrist softly in response. Its weight struck him as real when not many others did - he was absolutely certain of being back in reality, but at the same time, he found himself rather numb to the consequences that would befall him when he finally went back home. Nothing was amiss or hurting. In fact, he felt better than he had in the past couple of weeks; when he breathed in and out slowly, folding his hands over his chest, he was filled with a sense of divine calm, only the tiniest discomfort from the early-evening heat, and an insatiable urge to make macarons.

"..."

What an odd little craving that was. Guy had never had much of an opinion on macarons before in either direction - mounds of them were sold in the patisserie near his house, all technicolour flavours with the most delicate, smooth-sugary surface that the boy feared would crack from the slightest brush of someone's finger. Occasionally he got to have some and he found them pleasant, but that had been it - he'd never cared to seek them out specifically, look up a recipe for them or buy them for whatever occasion.

_... Beat three large egg whites until white and foamy, then add three hundred and fifty grams of white sugar and continue until stiff peaks form..._

So why he felt that way all of a sudden, or where that recipe in his head had come from, he had no idea. He only knew that it was tempting, and in some abstract way, important. Guy frowned up at the ceiling slightly and tightened his right hand, bringing himself slowly back to reality. Then he did a double take, finding something clutched in it that he hadn't noticed before; it was cold and hard, and while he'd been passed out, it had been slipped into his hand. He sat up, blinking rapidly - his tie, loosened, unraveled around his neck and fell with a soft whispering noise onto his lap. The top three buttons of his shirt had been loosened, presumably to cool him down, too. He looked down at those changes blankly, then transferred his gaze to his right hand to find -

\- an umbrella. _His_ umbrella, the one he had lost weeks ago, the one that he'd always shared with Thomas and had never replaced.

"... What the...?"

He almost didn't recognize it. The weight and shape and colour of it were all familiar to him, but he had been apart from it for so long, and had been expecting to never see it again for all that time, that when faced again with the umbrella he had no idea what to make of it. How had something he had lost in the Métro, before he had even _known_ of Roulé, appear back in Roulé's apartment as if nothing had happened? How had Roulé even known that he'd lost an umbrella at all?

_Roulé!_

Guy blinked, everything suddenly returning to him in sharp focus, and rose to his feet hurriedly. The pigeon on the balcony startled and flew away, but he didn't notice. "Ah... I..." he started, faltering for only a second as his voice came out hoarse. "... _Allô_? Roulé, are you there?"

Nothing. Not a sound was to be heard throughout the apartment. At any second now he expected to see the older man emerge from a room, smiling at him with his head tilted coyly to one side and with his notepad in hand, but at the same time as he gazed around the place he had the undeniable, sinking feeling that he was _alone_ in this place. Frankly, though, he wasn't surprised - and was more surprised over being so profoundly _un_ surprised, than anything else. He put the umbrella on the floor, noting that his satchel had been placed by the foot of the sofa and making sure to put the two items close together (he didn't want to lose the umbrella a second time) before looking around properly, reaching with awkward fingers to button his shirt back up as he did so. The survey of the apartment took less than five minutes, and he found that very little had changed save for Roulé's physical absence. Clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe, the plates from Roulé's dinner earlier were still stacked neatly on the drying rack, the wall of phrases was still wholly intact.

Nearly everything was the same, except for one very important thing. Every single one of the notepads and pens were gone.

Guy looked back in the spare room and found that Roulé's final message was still written on the wall there, but of the notepads/pens and other messages nothing else remained. When he checked the bookcase he also found that every book in there was gone save for _Aimez-Vous Brahms?,_ which was stood up on its own in the middle of a shelf as if being presented to Guy alone; he took it down and flicked through it, but found nothing of note inside the pages.

It was a _gift_ , he realized. Roulé had taken his words - _you can run away too, any time you want_ \- to heart.  
This, coupled with the lack of writing materials, was his way of telling the boy that he had taken note; that he hadn't run away, but had rather _left_ altogether on his own terms, that he wasn't to come looking for him, and that he _thanked Guy for everything_ , for the last time.

Guy looked up, book still in hand. Then he slowly sat back down, letting the understanding wash over him properly. Somehow, he didn't feel sad about the other's absence - a little empty, but not _sad_. Perhaps it just hadn't hit him yet. For all he knew, Roulé had packed up his writing materials to return to _his_ world, somewhere inaccessible to Guy, or perhaps he had rediscovered his voice and had no need for pen and paper any more.

He genuinely wished that the latter was the case, in one way or another.  
The voice that he had heard Roulé use had been entirely in his head, not _vocalized_ , but it was also nothing like the oppressive muteness that the older man had been cursed with before. As if in comfort, he felt a soft tingle on his lips the moment he finished that thought, and he raised a trembling hand to touch over them again. _Roulé kissed me,_ he thought in a daze as his fingertips brushed against his lips, the kiss burning behind them still. _Roulé kissed me and then he said goodbye... that was my first kiss... and now... he's gone_. He knew even less what to feel about this than everything else, and turned his gaze back to his school tie, still lying innocently on the sofa where he had left it.

He was staring down at it for quite a while. Something was coursing within him like a flood, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Guy eventually turned his gaze back to the kitchen, realizing that he hadn't checked that part of the apartment very thoroughly - there was also a little pang of hunger inside him, which didn't help matters overmuch. He got up and walked to the fridge, expecting to find it half-full of wines, baked goods and at least one pomegranate as it was usually the case. He found it almost entirely emptied out instead (which only solidified the thought that Roulé had left for good), devoid of any food or drink save for a white porcelain plate, and on the plate were six small macarons all arranged in a row: two salted caramel, two vanilla, two mint chocolate. This had to be related to his sudden interest in macarons, somehow. Guy took out the plate and set it atop the kitchen table, still in a state of half-disbelief; in the kitchen he found a carafe of freshly-made coffee, still hot enough to be steaming softly when he picked it up and swirled it around. It was as if Roulé had made all of this, and had disappeared merely seconds before he had awoken.

Guy briefly wondered whether he would have caught Roulé as he was leaving had he woken up sooner. Maybe this would always have happened, maybe he could have had an opportunity to say goodbye, he didn't know. But either way he'd left Guy something to eat, and that offer was not one to be turned down. He rummaged in the cupboards for a coffee cup and saucer and took that back to the table alongside the carafe, sat down, and poured the coffee. (He'd have to take it without milk or sugar, not that he thought he needed it.) Once the steam had settled, he reached for the vanilla macaron first. Picking it up, he surveyed it for a moment, taking in its soft, sensual-sweet aroma before biting into it. The soft white-chocolate-and-vanilla ganache inside melted in his mouth, so rich that he could taste the individual grains of vanilla on the tip of his tongue; he followed it up with a sip of the coffee and found this to even out the sweetness perfectly.

Macarons and bitter coffee, worlds apart in taste and yet complimenting each other in balance. He had come full circle, and the spell had been broken.  
And that finally made him feel immensely sad, but at the same time, what he felt still wasn't the kind of sadness that warranted tears. As he worked his way through the macarons slowly, one by one as if he didn't have two worried parents waiting for him back home, he simply let the emotion rest inside him, circulate, and slowly melt away. He knew that this was simply the way things had to be, that there was no sense in weeping about it, so he emptied his mind and carefully relished Roulé's final gift. Every single one of those macarons were baked to perfection, providing him with a goal for when he returned home and got his hands on the needed ingredients.

When he was done - he had eaten just enough, and emptied the carafe completely - he rose from the table and washed the dishes dutifully, drying them with a spare dishtowel. Out of a desire for cleanliness he tidied up everything on the drying rack and put them back where they belonged, turning the lights off with a decisive click. There was nothing that was left to do here. In solemn silence he stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, letting the final aftertaste of the coffee linger on his lips and gazing at the dark skies outside; the thought of leaving had only freshly crossed his mind when next to him the _phone rang_ , sudden and sharp, making him jump and stare at it as if it were possessed.

Who would call _Roulé?_ He had never seen that phone being used by anyone, he'd quite forgotten that Roulé even had one in the first place. More importantly, what was he meant to do with it, or tell the person on the other end? The ringing kept going, though, he had to find out who was calling at the very least - he'd just tell them that Roulé was no longer here, and put the phone down, if that was all that was required of him.

Guy picked up the phone, and simply waited, saying nothing until whatever voice at the other end came through. Evidently the person who was calling was just as polite as he was, and there was a brief silence as the two of them waited for the other to talk; it was Guy who eventually heard the other voice first, and what he heard almost made him drop the receiver.

"... _Allô_? Is anyone there?"

Guy's eyes widened, and he glanced quickly down at the phone, the dialpad gleaming innocently in the light. But surely - impossible!

"I'm looking for - oh, have I e-even got the right number, I-"

" _Thomas_?"

Pause. Guy could just imagine the younger boy now, frozen in place with confusion, probably gazing down at the phone in utter bewilderment and anxiety exactly as he was doing right now. "... _Guy_?" came the stunned response after a few seconds. "I - I could have sworn I had the... didn't feel right... pressed something different....?"

"... No... no, it is me... Thom, _where are you_?"

"I'm home! I just got back, and the answering machine had something like nearly fifty messages from you and I got worried, did something happen?" only then did the reality sink in. Yes, this was Thomas, not quite in the flesh just yet but most definitely back home and about to deal with somewhat of a mess. Now that Guy had gotten past the initial shock he could even hear background noises, that of the tap in the kitchen going and footsteps moving around. "not just you, either, there's more that I haven't listened to yet."

"Everyone's been looking for you for days. What happened?"

"Huh? What do you mean, _what happened_?" Thomas asked right back, a rather lost and confused tone in his voice. "I thought I said... Papa didn't get better on Wednesday, we all had to get him to hospital and stayed with Grandmère when we weren't watching over him, and you know she doesn't have a phone. He's fine now, by the way. We posted a letter to the school before we left, too, I figured you'd have known about it from _them_ at the latest..."

"No," Guy said, and narrowly bit back a hollow laugh at how inadequate his reply was in summing up all that had happened. "... no, they... they didn't seem to know. I got asked a few times where you were and they marked you down as absent... None of the teachers said anything..."

_"What! They think that I just left without a word?!"_

Thomas sounded absolutely horrified, and for good reason, too; Guy didn't manage to get a single word in before the younger boy quickly set the receiver aside, running into the kitchen to check what had happened to the letter. He could hear the faint thrumming of footsteps and a few shuffling sounds from the other end, still, which was the only thing keeping his panic at bay. _Not now,_ he pleaded still, _don't hang up, Thomas, I can't lose you again, come back!_ " _Oh, bon Dieu, oh merde_ -" Thomas's frantic voice came back as soon as that thought flashed by. "the letter fell behind the table, I just assumed that Maman mailed it and I can't _believe_ \- Christ, Guy, I'm in _so much trouble_ -"

"I need to see you," Guy interrupted breathlessly. "right now. I'm coming over to yours."

"And I - _what_?" Thomas gasped slightly on the other end. "you want to...? But isn't it a bit too late... your parents..."

"Half an hour. Less than that. Twenty minutes. God help me, Thomas, _please let me see you_."

'Too late' was a phrase that he never wanted to hear again in relation to Thomas. The younger boy had come back to him, and even if it meant running to him and tossing stones at his window in the middle of the night, Guy was going to see him in the flesh before the sun rose and nothing was going to stop him doing so. Only the other's stunned (reluctant) silence kept him hanging on for permission; it went on for longer than Guy was comfortable with, there was no doubt that Thomas was thinking of their last physical encounter and how awkward it might be to see each other again, as neither of them had ever gotten the chance to talk it out. _We didn't get that chance because I messed it up!_ Guy bit his lip to keep himself from exclaiming out loud. _Please say yes, Thom, give me a chance to fix this..._

"I'll be outside in twenty minutes, Guy..."

"Oh, God, _thank you_ ," the older boy murmured, tightening his hands around the receiver. "I'll be there, Thom, wait for me!"

"I... I will-"

That was all he heard before hanging up, that stunned-but-not-displeased utterance. Thomas was probably distressed enough already without dealing with Guy's confusing attitude over the phone, he knew that much, there was nothing that could be said here that wouldn't be better off dealt with in person. Guy glanced again at his surroundings - turned all the lights off, and checked the stove, just in case - before taking up his satchel and heading towards the door. He took out the apartment key from within his bag as he was putting on his shoes, its presence suddenly cool and surprisingly weighty on his palm.

Now he understood what he had been given this key for, when Roulé had mostly been around to open the door for him during the vast majority of their encounters. Save for once or twice, he had never been given it to open - no, that key was meant to _close_ all along, to safely lock up what had been past, whether for good or to be returned to later on. Guy shut his eyes as he opened the front door, stepped out and closed it again; he kept them closed as he felt for the keyhole and inserted the key in it, turning it the right way and hearing the lock clicking sharply in response.

This apartment, as his refuge, had always been tied to Roulé being around to maintain it. Now that he was gone, Guy too would leave with grace.

_Voyons, Guy-Manuel._

Guy stepped back just a little, key still in hand, to allow himself one final look at the front door - large and foreboding, all of a sudden - and felt a slight bittersweetness at the sight. That door alone didn't do justice to all the things that he had experienced in there; he would have preferred to see the interior of the apartment again, over the dozens of memories he had shared with Roulé during that short time, no matter how sad or terrible they were. They'd still happened, and he _had_ taken something from them, and none of that would have taken place had he never known this place.

His fingers twitched around the key. Part of him longed to open the door again, just a crack, just for a small glance.

_Sois homme, mon petit!_

But that time was past. He shook his head, distracting himself from the temptation, and just to make it final he stepped forwards and slipped the key through the mail slot instead. It fell with a faint clink at the other side, and when he heard it, he audibly sighed out in relief. With his memories and his key to the 'other world' safely where they belonged, there was nothing to do here but to turn on his heels and walk away - not twenty steps had passed before he began to _run_ , clutching onto the railings as he sped down the stairs and out of the apartment building, down the streets that he would not return to again for a long time, his breath harsh yet infinitely liberating in his lungs as he sprinted towards Pigalle Station.

The voice was right. He had to be grown up. He had to move on.

_Wait for me, Thomas._

There was no looking back. His own Eurydice needed saving.

_I'm coming for you!_

\-----

On the way it had begun to rain. By fortune, though (it had to be fortune, as Roulé was no longer presiding over Montmartre) the train had pulled in just as Guy had hurtled down the steps of Pigalle Station. The minutes flew past him as he clung anxiously to the safety bar near the door, ready to sprint again as soon as he reached Porte Dauphine - thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - and when the train stopped again he was out of there before he knew it, stuffing his uniform jacket into his satchel as it was proving to be too hot to keep on. A miracle indeed, Montmartre to another _arrondissement_ altogether in just twenty minutes of train rides, running and a whole lot of serendipity. Fairly soon Thomas's house was in sight, and Guy near collapsed in relief when he saw the family car parked in the driveway and that all the lights were on; he hadn't been hallucinating, they really were back.

But where was Thomas?

He turned his face upwards to stare blankly at the sky, panting heavily. He'd developed quite the stitch, he was in so much pain, but his mind was clear and alert. He dropped his satchel to the pavement and leaned heavily against the wall, burying his face against his damp palms and becoming aware of how soaked through he was, He looked a sight, only in his uniform shirt and trousers, the fabric and his hair wet and clinging tightly to his skin-

"Guy."

He shot up from his position and looked. It was Thomas, looking shy and unsure, wearing a slightly oversized sweater for warmth; he was dark-haired again. A few strands of bleached-blond hair (from where the dye had missed it) still stood out near his right ear, but at some point in the past few days he had clearly changed his mind about the whole experiment. It would have given him something else to focus on whilst trying to deal with his father's illness and being unable to make any amends with the older boy.

_There are times when I look at you and go..._

Not that _Thomas_ was the one who had to apologize for anything.  
When Thomas had dyed his hair he hadn't even commented on it much beyond a few initial remarks, though he'd marveled over Roulé's own; it was just _hair_ when it came down to it, hardly anything life-changing, but he had neglected it all the same. Guy was at once so glad and yet so ashamed that he could only look at Thomas for what felt like hours, though it couldn't have been longer than a minute at most, drinking him in as if he would disappear again the moment he looked away. It was the distant rumble of thunder that startled him out of it. "Oh, we should-" Thomas spoke up as well, his nervousness temporarily dissipated, but was cut off again as Guy wordlessly opened his umbrella and held it over their heads. It was meaningless to him personally, he was already soaked through with the rain, but Thomas hadn't been long outside and if it could be of some use to him-

_... You know..._

The sound of the rain became muted around them, the umbrella forming a dry spot for the two of them alone. He'd missed this. He had spent weeks without realizing it, but he had missed this. This was proof that what had once been lost could be found again, but now that he had it back he couldn't believe himself for having _lost it_ _in the first place,_ a harsh, tidal wave of remorse sweeping over him in response.

_... Guy-Manuel... really is a kid, just like I am..._

"... Hey, Thom," Guy blurted out, tears running freely down his cheeks and mingling with the rain. "did I ever tell you - how - how _goddamn - cute -_ you looked with blond hair?"

The slightly-dismayed and yet surprised look on the other boy's face was what finally opened the floodgates once and for all. Before he even knew what was happening he had Thomas locked in an embrace so tight that they could barely breathe, sobbing incoherently into the other's arms. It was not at all like him - _Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo_ in such throes of emotion, what a sight! - but what did that even mean to him anymore, when he'd grown up so much in the past couple of hours? It was of the utmost importance to him that he didn't let go of the umbrella, but he still had one arm free. With it he held onto Thomas as if he were liquid and would slip away at any moment; he clutched over the other's shoulders, then around his waist, around that lithe body that would not stay the same height as his own for long. Thomas's movements were already a little hesitant, a little pained too from the early signs of another growth spurt. Guy was pressing the side of his face and then his lips against the younger boy's cheeks to greet him back into his life; Thomas gasped a little at the kisses, so surprised that he even forgot to blush in favour of staring at Guy quizzically, and this only made the older boy cry harder. "I'm sorry," Guy whispered, his one free arm wrapped tightly around Thomas's waist. "I'm sorry. I really, really am."

Here was his friend, a boy just as confused and frightened of the future as he was, entirely ready to face the world and yet so painfully fragile at the same time. Regardless of how hard one tried, it was simply the fact of the matter that people would be hurt when the time came for them to be hurt; Guy knew this, and he simply couldn't stop his tears because of Thomas ever having to be hurt in the first place, completely independent of whose responsibility that was. "I did a terrible thing to you," he sobbed. "I should never have brought that up... didn't deserve it, you were only trying to look out for me..."

Years of friendship between them, and he was only realizing now what it _meant_ for his best friend to be in pain. Thomas had understood this earlier than he had, quite clearly, and he'd had plenty of opportunities to do so considering what he had been put through recently.

"I was so scared... I never... I hurt you, Thom... and for the first time I just couldn't reach you and it was _all my fault_ -"

He cried, because he was relieved that Thomas was okay.  
He cried, because he realized how callous he had been, and he still wanted to take it all back.  
He cried, because Roulé had withdrawn from his life, and even through his joy the persistence of loss was hard. A long time ago, as a six-year old casually watching the funeral of Jean-Paul Sartre, he had gained the wisdom that death was not a grand finale nor a fearful climax, but an entirely-ordinary, omnipresent occurrence melded into the realities of one's everyday life. It was a common thing, an perfectly normal thing to eventually come to terms with; surely that was the truth, that by virtue of living everyone carried death with them, as the presence of life implied the potential for the absence of it just as heavily. The absences of Thomas and Roulé had taught him, however, that no truth in the world was capable of healing such a raw, brutal loss on its own. No truth, faith, soft words nor fighting could come up against the feeling of something having been carved out of the self; out of that sorrow things were to be learnt, lessons that would later prove to be no use in healing other unexpected sorrows that would surely come one's way. He cried because he understood this now, because it had taken him such a long time, and because he'd ultimately had to lose someone dear to him in the end to learn this one lesson.

He cried, because despite everything he was only sixteen years old, and because in so many aspects he was still just a child.

But there was nothing _wrong_ with being a child. Children needed warmth, kindness and understanding to flourish - most people in general did, but children most of all - and there was nothing wrong about wanting all of those things, nor about leaning into one who was willfully providing it. Thomas's arms tightened around him quite suddenly, the younger boy burying his face into his shoulder with just as much eagerness. "Well, what am I going to do with my hair _now_?" he asked, half-bemused and almost sounding close to happy tears himself. "you couldn't have told me a bit earlier, Guy? _Mon Dieu_. But - but I'm glad, I'm so glad, I missed you a lot this past week... and you missed me too, good, nothing got messed up between us..."

"You have _no idea_ ," Guy wept, though he quietened soon enough as he became convinced that Thomas was one-hundred-percent real. "I look like a right idiot now, but I - I don't care, I'm just so glad that you're back and your dad's okay, that everything's okay. Oh, _God_. I'm not making sense. Do you... want to be picked up here tomorrow instead of at Porte Dauphine, get a butter croissant on the way to school or something? And... I'll ring them up in the morning, too, tell them that you came back and got straight back in touch with me... make sure you won't get into any trouble..."

"Yes, please," Thomas whispered, nuzzling into Guy's shoulder. "you're a darling."

There it was, his forgiveness, that utterly priceless treasure that had taken Guy mere minutes to obtain on this spot - but how _hard_ he'd had to work for it, and rightfully so, only he and the heavens would ever know. It didn't matter. The umbrella fell to the ground and rolled slightly about their feet as they hugged proper and laughed, and the rain kept on pounding down, washing away all that was past.

\-----

All was well. There was no stressing this point enough.  
A great many things happened then and after Thomas's return, but all was well, and that was the most important thing. Guy passed all of his exams (even the ones that he'd done in a near daze), Thomas's situation was explained and forgiven generously by the school, and the younger boy was welcomed back with much fanfare on Tuesday morning when he came into class hand in hand with Guy. Fairly soon exam season was over and there was little left but for the students of the _Lycée_ to sit back and relax, worry (only in the case of having failed too many things), choose the path of their respective _baccalaureats_ (relevant to the two boys), and eventually rejoice in school having let out for the summer.

It was now late June, the very height of summer. Tourist season had begun a couple of weeks ago, but so far it wasn't yet time for Paris to be bothered too much with them, and the streets remained hot and quiet even during the late mornings. In front of Porte Dauphine Station, Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo was leaning against the railings with a fair-sized basket by his feet, wearing a mauve hoodie and letting his freshly-washed hair dry in the sun, a cigarette held loosely between his lips as he waited for his best friend.

Though, he didn't really _smoke_. He carried the same pack around all the time, occasionally pulling one out and holding it meaningfully in his mouth; even more rarely, he woud light it and just take a mouthful of smoke, but never inhaled. He was content to just _look_ like an adult for now, just for a while, instead of _becoming_ one. Him having this awareness possibly made him more grown-up than many others in the world, but looking at Thomas Bangalter waving at him as he hurried towards him in the crowd, Guy shelved those contemplations aside for the time being and greeted the other boy with a hug. " _Salut, Thom_!"

" _Salut, Guy_!” there was a speck of shaving cream on his cheek. Guy rubbed it off for him. “I'm sorry I was late-"

"- Not at all, not by my watch-"

"- _Vraiment_? Well, even better. I've got everything from my end," he patted the bundle over his arm, grinning cheekily. "you'll never guess who I saw on my way here."

"Laurent? René? Someone who only you would know? Someone who only I would know? Michael Jackson?"

"Not quite as exciting as Michael Jackson, but still exciting!" Thomas chuckled slightly, a tiny blush rising to his cheeks before fading away. ("Just as well," Guy added in the meantime, "because I'd never have forgiven you for seeing Michael on the way while _I_ didn't,") "you got it right second time. See, René has a _boyfriend_."

Guy raised his eyebrows. He'd only ever seen René with girls (and infrequently at that) so it came as a little surprise, but it wasn't long at all before the thought struck him as perfectly natural. A month or two ago his response would have amounted to a small 'oh' of acknowledgment and no more, but today he felt a little more brave. "Well," he said with a bemused smirk. "is he _cute_?"

This was evidently not the response that Thomas had expected to hear. "C- _cute_?" the younger boy spluttered, turning even pinker (if that were possible). "I, uh, don't think I can really... answer such a thing, Guy, what makes you think-"

" _Je sais, je sais_ ," the older boy laughed and picked up the basket before straightening up. His back creaked slightly as he did so and he lightly twisted his torso to the side, sighing contentedly at the pressure easing from his spine; he was just about to take hold of Thomas's hand with his free one and lead them across the road when he glanced up and saw a man in a grey suit emerging from the station, almost a dead ringer for someone else he knew down to the briefcase on his right hand, and his breath caught in his throat.

"What's wrong?" Thomas asked, sensing how the other froze and glancing towards the same general direction as he. His question brought Guy back down to earth. Now that he was looking again he saw that the height wasn't quite right, and that this man was all business, frowning slightly in thought as he hurried off into the distance; he was immeasurably relieved to know that he'd been mistaken, but at the same time, just a little sad, and not in the bad way.

 _... Where are you, now?_  
_Are you well? Have you left Paris for good?  
_ _Are you with your lover, is he doing okay, are you happy?_

He didn't think that he would see Roulé again.  
He was all right with that, and whilst it would have been a lie to say that he _wasn't surprised_ about being all right with that - it was as Roulé had said. _True is true._ Every life had a certain point where everything good left it to make room for newer and better things, and Guy had simply reached that point. There was nothing more complicated about it.

"Nothing," he said. "... nothing at all," then he took Thomas's hand reassuringly. "let's go!"

Across the road to the Bois de Boulogne they went, entering a side path and up a small, grassy slope. The basket bounced lightly against Guy's legs and he carefully lifted it closer to his upper body, not wanting to ruin anything inside. This was the first day of their summer holiday, and they were celebrating another school year gone by with a nice picnic; they'd thought of going over to each other's houses but had deemed the weather too nice to miss, so this had been the compromise. Thomas found a nice spot under a large, sprawling tree that was secluded from public view and spread the picnic blanket that he'd brought over it, pinning down the corners with whatever was lying around so that it wouldn't be blown upwards by the wind. "There," he exclaimed, and sat down contentedly. "I didn't have breakfast, I'm starving-"

"I figured, you've been growing so fast. It shows. I haven't had breakfast either if that helps. Have a look in the basket."

The picnic food was Guy's treat; he didn't cook often, but for today he had done do and had done it well. Thomas took out four foil-wrapped bundles, each of them holding four sandwiches in different flavours, a container filled with strawberries, another container of pasta salad, two ice-cold bottles of Coke and a chilled case of homebaked macarons. It was the latter that caught Thomas's interest the most - _'oh wow, Guy, you can make those? they look fantastic!'_ \- to such an extent that Guy had to playfully push the other's hand away from them, reminding him that they were to be saved for later.

"What do you mean, _later?_ I find this all very unfair. Food's meant to be eaten, that's what they're for."

"Yes, but some foods are best off eaten after the others. That's what desserts are for," Guy answered loftily, and passed him a tuna-and-cucumber sandwich. "there you go. How's your dad?"

"Papa's doing pretty good, he's taken the doctor's advice to heart and taking a bit of a break over the summer. Just like us, really," Thomas beamed at the very thought of it. "he says we might be able to go away to Prague for a week, either there or somewhere like Madrid, he likes the sun."

"That sounds fantastic. We're going somewhere next month, too, it'd be cool if our dates matched up, _non?_ Then we'd just come back and meet up without having missed too much."

"Where're you going?"

"East Germany," Guy said, then hastily corrected himself. "I mean - it's just _Germany_ , now, isn't it? _Oui_. Germany, Berlin first, then down to Dresden, then a stop at Stuttgart before coming home. Papa said we'd be away for two or three weeks easily."

Thomas thought about this for a few seconds before nodding. The two boys had grown up in a world where Germany had _always_ been divided into two, at least until about six or seven months ago, and it was a little strange adjusting to it again. "That sounds amazing," he said with a wistful sigh. "make use of your German, and everything - you're going to have such a good time, Guy. I wish I could come, too."

 _And I wish you could, too. I'd miss you terribly wherever you are, if it's not with me._  
At least, Guy allowed himself the luxury of thinking that, though he didn't speak it out loud. It was only truth that they would be apart for certain things as they went about their lives - they'd chosen different paths for the _baccalaureat_ already, so that next year they would be in even more different classes than before. They were not likely to choose the same university if they went at all, they possibly wouldn't work at the same kind of job (though if Thomas's father could help, they might be able to avoid this one), one day they might not even live close to each other. All of these were perfectly possible; it was not Guy's job to hide from those truths, rather to accept and make their relationship work _despite_ them. Besides, why trouble Thomas with thoughts of the end, when they were only just beginning? He shook his head softly, dispelling the other's concerns. "One day we'll both go," he said. "and party in Berlin, Thom, and it will be cliché and hair-raisingly wonderful. The moment you're sixteen, we're making plans for it. Now let's have those macarons, I've been dying to see how those turned out," this was agreeable to the younger boy, whose face instantly brightened. "chocolate?"

"Please," Thomas grinned, and eagerly let Guy feed him a macaron; some of the chocolate cream inside smudged against the older boy's fingers as he bit the confection in half. "ah - mmh-" he mumbled, covering his mouth as he chewed and swallowed quickly. " _d-désolé_..."

"Pff, _désolé_ nothing," Guy laughed, and offered him the other half. "have it all, go on. Is it good?"

He was answered with a definite nod. He'd had no idea that Thomas loved macarons so much, he really should make some more in the near future. When the younger boy took the other half of the macaron he withdrew his hand and licked his fingers clean, quick and cute like a cat, for once entirely aware of how suggestive it would look to Thomas - and allowing himself the freedom to tease. It worked like a charm; Thomas stared at him for a second, startled, then turned away with a blush.

_Heh._

"W-what are the other flavours, then?"

"That one's salt caramel," Guy said as if nothing had happened, pointing to the light brown ones. The sun shone upon them, melting their fillings just enough that they released their sweet, intoxicating scent with ease. "that one's coffee... vanilla... raspberry... I experimented with crème du cassis but I feel like those don't really look that appetizing, sorry... and that's lemon, Maman helped me with those."

And so on. Picnics hadn't been a staple of their friendship since their first year, but today was lovely enough that they both thought that they should do it more. The wind was nice, not many other people were around, and the shade was nevertheless warm enough for them to lie on comfortably later on and laugh as they talked about nothing in particular. (The cassis macaron was fine. Thomas took a bite and immediately proclaimed it excellent, and he was the last person to lie about food.) Way ahead in the distance starshine glinted against the surface of the water, sparkling with the weather and the occasional movement of fish, birds or a boat passing by. At some point Thomas mentioned something offhandedly about it being a little too hot, so Guy took off his hoodie and pillowed it beneath his head as a silent suggestion that he should do the same. Lying down and letting the breeze pass over their bodies would do them a world of good.

"Do you need me to move over?"

"No, this is fine," Thomas said lazily as he sprawled out; his legs had gotten longer over the past month, he was genuinely taller than Guy now. (The older boy didn't mind.) He looked at him, really _looked_ at him. Thomas's eyelashes glinted in the sun, long and caramel-speckled, casting delicate shadows beneath his eyes. "oh, I'm so _happy_ ," he breathed out - blinked a few times - and laughed, reaching out and brushing his hand against Guy's own. Their fingers touched, drew back briefly in hesitation, then laced together; Guy glanced over at the other, saw that the curve of Thomas's mouth had become fuller, and could swear that something inside him had blossomed _just_ a little.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _This is nice._

Guy closed his eyes. The breeze tickled over their faces. Thomas's scent, mixed with the faint hints of _chocolat-chaud_ and shaving cream, drifted towards him.  
His mouth tingled faintly, and for barely a second he dreamed that he wanted to - and perhaps, that Thomas wanted him to, as well - but held back wth a smile instead, leaning his head close to rest against the other's shoulder. Not now, now was not the time, not yet. What Roulé had gifted to him was too precious to give away on mere impulse, and in a sense, it wasn't his to give away in the first place.

No. _He himself_ was the gift.  
Roulé had sealed it into him, and as the months and years passed he would let it flourish within himself, undertaking a transformation into what his intended would desire. But he had to bide his time - no gift revealed itself without prompting - when the time was right, he would allow himself to be held, unwrapped and appreciated. _He_ was the chosen one, to be desired faithfully by one person only, and he already knew that said person would be Thomas. For there was always an undeniable relation between a present and its receiver, that feeling of sweet anticipation from both sides; how beautiful it was to be wanted, to give such pleasure, to _belong_!

One day, there would be no 'perhaps' to their relationship at all, whenever that would be.  
And when that day came, they would both know, and Thomas would claim what was rightfully his from his lips. He could barely wait, but he would.

"... Guy?"

He said nothing. He kept his eyes closed and lay very still, though he was well aware that he couldn't hide the pleased blush and smile from his face, and didn't make an effort to do so. Thomas gave it a few more seconds before slowly sitting up - Guy could hear him doing so, though their fingers stayed locked - and peering into the older boy's face.

_Thank you for giving him back to me, Roulé. Thank you for everything. Because of you, now I can see._

Thomas didn't call out to him again. Guy could feel the other's eyes upon his face, studying his features intently, and eventually beginning to lean in just a little closer. The other's cool, sweet breath skated over his cheek and over his mouth, tickling him enough to smile again, and Guy decided that should _Thomas_ want to - the chances of that were still low, if he'd read the younger boy correctly - but if he approached right now, wanted to experiment a little - then he wouldn't resist. And Thomas _was_ tempted, he could tell, by the way his breathing quickened against Guy's body.

But nothing came of it, ultimately. (It was for the best.) No, there was only the slightest brush of what might have been a fingertip or a peach-soft cheek against the side of his face - before Thomas audibly moved away, keeping their fingers locked but also respectfully keeping his distance. So that was how it was going to be, then. Guy hadn't expected much different, and was in fact quite glad, that he would be allowed time to think and thrive until they were both ready. This could only be a good thing - he had too much pride in their friendship to allow themselves to become awkward teenagers frantic to be alone together with no true idea as to what they were doing. Better for them to mature and let their smouldering emotions burn more brightly for having been banked up so long. There would always, now, be plenty of time.

_And yes, you are missing from the core of my being._

There was no one alive that would not be better for being loved, but there was no harm in waiting for a while. They still had many things to think about and come to terms by themselves. Thomas knew to be extra careful with the valuable things in his life, as his father had advised him such a long time ago. Guy knew now to never let the younger boy's importance fade from his mind, and that he had to be patient. They were back to the equilibrium of silence, letting everyday interaction and the small things in life speak of their appreciation for each other; the only thing that had really changed was that Guy was now aware of that that silence truly meant. He shifted about slightly and opened his eyes again, staring up lazily into the sky before turning his head to look at Thomas. The younger boy looked back at him, a shy little grin on his face.

"... Thomas."

" _Oui_?" Thomas murmured in response. He moved a couple of inches closer to Guy, but no more, waiting to hear what the older boy had to say. " _qu'est-ce que c'est_?"

_But I know that you're all right. Neither of us would have it any other way, after all._  
_If you do return one day, please send me a message to tell me that you've come back..._

He still didn't fully understand what it felt like to be in a romantic relationship with someone, but he'd come far enough to be able to dream about it without confusion or guilt. He looked at the younger boy, and dreamed of a future where that blessing called love would be bestowed upon him in all its glory; he dreamed of a world where the base, breathless rhythm of love would set his heart aflame, restoring light and joy to his world to levels previously unknown.

"... Just wanted to call your name."

It wasn't as if he was completely unprepared, after all.

Thomas pouted slightly, but at the same time, he looked entirely unsurprised. There was something about his demeanour that suggested that there was a lot about this situation that he had been expecting beforehand; Guy couldn't pinpoint a reason as to how, but there was no dire need for him to find out, so he let it go. "And here I thought you were going to tell me some earth-shattering secret or something, you sounded so serious," the younger boy complained, and Guy chuckled a little.

"Not quite, _je suis désolé_ , Thom. It's... it's just nice looking at you, is all. That's not a secret."

The other boy's eyes lit up in a smile. "Well, mind if I hijack this moment to tell you a not-secret of my own? I still think it's important, or at least, that I haven't said it for a while."

"Is it a not-secret that I know about already?"

"Oh, most definitely. But you could still use a reminder."

_... But you know that I'll be okay, too._

" _Merci d'être ici_ ," Thomas said softly, placing Guy's hand over his heart. His cheeks were pink, but his few words spilled out as liltingly as the words of a ballad, unplanned and heartfelt, and he met the older boy's eyes with ease; there was a great deal that he would have liked to say, and eventually would, but for now this one truth was more important than the rest. " _avec moi_."

_We'll both be okay._

It was still enough. More than enough. Guy moved closer and brought Thomas closer to his body with his free arm, an echo of how they so often slept next to each other; slowly he allowed the younger boy to rest his head on his shoulder, both of them in their rightful resting place after their respective journeys, content and at peace. Oh, they were young after all, in almost no time they would both be quite ready for another adventure; but for now they needed a recharge of sorts and there was no better way to do that than to be assured in each other's presence.

This was a slice of life, only a slice - but it was a life that they were to share together. And Guy was all right with that.

_Trust me._

"... _Moi aussi_ , _Thomas, merci."_

Something had thawed.  
For the very first time, Guy felt the sweet caress of longing within his heart, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing Wanderjahre because I'm an adult, and being an adult is hard.
> 
> When I was sixteen years old I wish someone would have told me that adulthood wasn't the magical solution to all of life's problems. I was left alone in a foreign country as a sixteen years old, very frightened but at the same time very numb to everything; it's amazing what a person will adjust to in order to survive. I kept my head up because I knew I had to be an adult to manage being alone, and if I couldn't I would sink. So I did exactly that, and kept afloat. For that I paid with my ability to connect with people of my own age - a lot of my friends drifted away after I began living alone, because I had become so irrevocably changed that I didn't belong any more - and any true sense of self-worth, because why would I have had to go through those things if I was still worth being protected by someone?
> 
> I wrote Wanderjahre, because when I was sixteen years old, I could have done with a little magic of my own. Call it wish fulfillment. There is a lot of me in this story, yet I am nowhere in it, because while it is my story it is not the one that I have lived.  
> There was no Roulé. There never was anyone like Roulé who had authority and wisdom enough to guide me.  
> The truth was much lonelier than that. 
> 
> But it has been five years since then, and that is a long time to rethink your life. I look back at myself then and back at myself as I am now and I cannot recognize the person who I have become. This, for the larger part, is a good thing. 
> 
> About the magical realism.  
> I, being entrenched in philosophy, am perhaps the last person you'd think would believe in magic. And you'd be totally right in one sense; I don't believe in the _supernatural_ , that people can transform into vampires or werewolves, or that there could be potions and spells and exclusive manipulators of chance. I'm willing to overlook all of that when I read, but I look around myself in real life, and then the suspension of disbelief fades away. What I wished to convey was a magic more abstract and simple than that, that of the idea that other people necessarily exist in your world.
> 
> At first their gazes met not at all; then one day they finally turned their heads, and looked at each other eye to eye. _That's it._ That was all they needed, just to be seen. All magical realism aside, that was all what Wanderjahre was about. And that's more than enough. They'll get there eventually. That was not a lot to ask - it took a long time for them to get there, but it was not a lot to ask, just to be perceived and smiled at every now and then.
> 
> But you know something? What I spent 100,000+ words writing about is nowhere near as harrowing in real life. _You do this all the time._ How many times now in your life have you ever watched a friend cry, or seen someone in need, and found that all you needed to do was to _speak_ to them and/or reach out to make them feel better. How precious it is to have others by your side, to hear you out when you're upset, to reach out a helping hand, to simply stay by you and speak that one, vital, eternal truth: _I am here with you._
> 
> The miracle of the Other, permeating your world with bliss.  
> And I tell you, my friends, if that isn't magic, I don't know what is.
> 
> I imagine that a lot of the people who read Wanderjahre are of Thomas and Guy's age. This story is for a lot of people, but primarily, it is dedicated to you who are at the cusp of growing up and facing the world on your own. And I want to tell you, pure and simple, that it's okay to stay the age you are. It is okay to have fun, to be emotional, to throw up your hands and admit that you don't know what you're doing if you don't. It is okay to be confused about a lot of things, regarding your body, gender, sexuality, your relationships, future - everything. It is okay to decide on one thing and change your mind. 
> 
> You are young. You are growing up. _That is how people grow._
> 
> And beyond that, I want to tell you that _you'll be okay_. Everyone stumbles now and then, but you'll be okay. The author said so, and when times are hard and you feel like you can't leave the quagmire, there will always be someone to reach out and take your hand - and even through the barrier of the monitor screen I wanted to send the message that even if I don't know you and will never see you and hold your hand, I have felt the same things that you have, I have cried and I have been happy in the same ways that you have, and that even though most may not care about the things you love, I have heard you and I have thanked you and I love you well. You are not alone.
> 
> Thank you, everyone.
> 
> I wish you all a little bit of magic in your day.
> 
> [ _[Wanderjahre](http://wanderjahrethefanfiction.tumblr.com/)_ (12/May/2014 - 11/Aug/2014) - Kimbk]


	10. Side Story 01: Ein Bericht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * As a brief break from the main story and as part of a request/attempt to tie some plot points together, **this chapter will be a side story explaining the sleepover of Chapter 3 from an alternate point of view.** Reading that chapter is necessary to understand this.  
>  * **Spoilers up to Chapter 7 are present, read with caution.**  
>  * This story was published 28/Jun/2014, before the update of Chapter 8. I make this note because I will eventually be reordering all sidestories to the end of the fic for neater presentation.  
> * This story supports the 'astral projection'/'alternate-dimension' interpretation of the Wanderjahre!Labels. Not all sidestories will support the same ones.

**Wanderjahre (Side Story 01) - ' _Ein Bericht_ '**

\---------------

Midnight, that magic hour, the boundary between a day dying and another coming to life. A figurative lens focuses into a room, and onto a bed, then further onto a body.  
This is you. You have made it safely through the past twenty-four hours, and you're just about to fall asleep, warm and happy. _You are very much yourself._ This report aims to reassure you of the truth of this statement for exactly 7672 words, until it comes to an end with the words '... stop here'; if by some chance you are able to access and learn from this somehow, let this be the most important thing you get out of it, and hopefully you will never lose your grasp on that fact.

 _"Bonne nuit,"_ your best friend (and bedfellow for tonight) murmurs at you drowsily. He tugs the blankets up and nestles snugly into it, and you cuddle up to him, resting your head on his chest. He doesn't mind, never has, and you have always been grateful for that. _"fais de beaux rêves."_

_"Oui, dors bien."_

You still sleep with a nightlight on. Part of you is always apologetic when he comes around to sleep at your place, you know he prefers total darkness. It's not that you personally are afraid of the dark, you are too old for that; you simply got used to it. You used to fall asleep while reading when you were younger, before you ever knew your best friend, leaving your main bedroom lights on all the way through the night and into the next morning - the nightlight was a cost-effective solution, bright enough to prevent straining of your eyes but also gentler on them. Over time, that nightlight has come to symbolize a kind of comfort to you, a reassurance that everything was in order rather than a repellent against darkness, and it's also a practical source of light for when you might awake and need to go to the bathroom or go downstairs. In the near-decade you've had it, it's always worked perfectly; there is literally no downside to having this nightlight around.

Unless, of course, he is with you. You lie there and think about this with eyes closed; you haven't had a sleepover with him for a while so you haven't had cause to think about this much, but now that you are, you can't help but remark to yourself that you're fifteen years old. Afraid of darkness or not, aren't you a little old to insist on having a light on at all times when you sleep?

Though, it's not really all about you. You blink open your eyes and glance up at your friend. The nightlight behind him illuminates his hair and the side of his face a gentle, syrupy gold; he's already asleep, extremely still and unmoving. Not even his chest heaves all that much, or as frequently, as you would like. If you really strain to hear you can hear his heartbeat though, slow but strong, louder than your own. You're thankful that he puts up with whatever you do.

Smiling gently, you pillow your head on his chest again, take a deep breath - and pause, just before you try to go back to sleep again.  
His pyjama top has been unbuttoned slightly, some of the fabric pushed to the side, and you know he doesn't wear an undershirt when he sleeps. He smells lovely, his natural scent of soap and faintly-burnt chocolate mingling with that of caramel. He really enjoyed your popcorn, more than you yourself noticed at the time, he's only presenting you with the evidence of that now.

You're close enough to reach out and touch with your fingertips, but you don't. Tugging the covers ever closer, you just sigh a little - swallow - and dare to press your cheek very briefly against his bare skin, flinching away as soon as you make contact. His skin is hot and smooth, romanticized into what feels like fire-warmed velvet against your body.

 _Oh_ , you murmur. Not out loud. You just mouth it. _Oh._

Caramel is your favourite flavour. It's absolutely delicious, and at this present moment you think: so is he, in some odd but excellent way. Just as you're thinking that he shifts slightly in his sleep, lazily bringing up and resting his arm across the back of your shoulders, pulling you closer. You're only too glad for the invitation, and so close your eyes and grin to yourself as you bury your face in his chest and finally feel yourself being pulled to sleep. Maybe the next time he comes around you'll have all the lights off and just be with him in the dark.

You would never _need_ a nightlight with him around, that's for sure, he's light and comfort and practicality enough.

\-----

You walk into a room. This is still you. It's a slightly different you, but it's still you. Let this be a secondary line of observation.  
It's been a fairly satisfying night for you so far; there's a slight, dull ache lower down in your body, but it's nothing serious. You look around the room with curiosity, although you can't immediately see very much; once your eyes become used to the dark, and you're going to need that ability in the near future, you pace about slightly to answer several self-inquiries about the kind of place you've found yourself in.

This is the place, you're fairly sure of it. You ought not to leave your point of origin, or home rather, for too long. It certainly feels familiar enough. As stated previously, you're still you, so this location should make some kind of intrinsic sense to you. You edge carefully around an empty wooden bowl and slightly more full bowl of popcorn, then bend down to push a few glasses out of the way, straightening up to dust your lap afterwards. Your gaze travel from the wall, to the other walls, to the ceiling, then to the sofa filled with a veritable clutter of personal items. A bag lies on the armrest, an empty video case lies splayed open on one of the cushions; there's a plastic toothbrush cover and a shirt laid on the backrest; a copy of Proust's _Swann's Way_ lies unread and forgotten in the middle of this arrangement.

 _Devastating._ A book tossed about and neglected. You shake your head slightly, raising your eyebrow, profoundly unimpressed. Yet the purpose of your visit wasn't to dwell to such things, so you simply look up, walk out of the room, and go upstairs.

...

...?

... And _then_ , you look up, walk out of the room, and go upstairs.

...

... Wait. What... what are you doing?  
The book? You want to read the book? _Now_? But it's _Proust_. Why would you want to do that in the middle of the night? You have other things that you came for.

You stand there and stare down at the book and deliberate on this for a moment. You are admittedly quite puzzled at your own rather spontaneous want to read it, but that want remains a valid one. After all, you came in peace, you're hurting no one by taking a little break and sitting down to read. It _is_ the book that helped you to identify him, it makes sense that you would be fond of it, and there is time. With that in mind, you pick up the book and make yourself comfortable on the sofa, lying back and opening it to the first page, smiling down at the semi-thumbed through whole and observing where the bookmark sits, taking note to be careful not to dislodge it when you get to that part.

You're an opportunistic reader, but you're still a _reader_. You wouldn't want to spoil the experience for anyone else. Now if only you had a refreshment or two.

\-----

You are lost deep, deep in a dream. Yes, this is still you. It's a lovely dream, abstract but gentle. Here's an account of it.

You are in the Bois de Boulogne. You are atop a small hill - well, it's not even really a hill, more of a gentle grassy slope with large trees atop it - and right ahead of you is the lake, cool and deep and blue. When you blink and look around, you see that you're in the shade with your best friend, but aside from that there is no one nearby, and there's no sound to be heard but the distant splashing of the water and the gentle summer wind rustling your clothes.

He looks at you and you look at him right back. There's a picnic blanket beneath the two of you, and the remnants of what looks like a homemade lunch in a dark carrier bag off to the side. There are two sandwiches still left over, along with a container of yet-unopened macarons; despite your cooking prowess, you can't make macarons (they always deflate or don't set), and that's how you know that _he_ made all this for the two of you. He cooks well when he wants to, he just seldom does - whatever this occasion is, it's a very special one, and you're instantly enamoured with it. This, despite not knowing the context.

But that's okay. It's a dream. You don't need to know context in a dream, you just react to it as it comes. People only tend to think that dreams and real life are different because their concept of what 'life is like' is rooted too far in causes and effects; really, they're not all that different in that you don't have as much control over your life as you think. Conversely, this also means that you are not as helpless as you think in a dream, as you'll find out in the coming weeks. Besides, you aren't even in danger. Your friend looks just about asleep, leaning back on his elbows as he stares lazily at the view, and it's ever so beautifully warm. Flecks of sunshine glimmer in the horizon, afternoon stars blinking towards the two of you, everything is very quiet and still.

You don't know what time period this could be in. It feels hot enough to be midsummer, but there are small spring daisies on the ground. Out of curiosity you reach over and pluck a handful, making a careful slit in the stalk of each one with your thumbnail (staining it a faint green) and threading it into a garland of sorts. It's far too small to be a necklace but too large to fit your wrist, but you carry on, amused by what you're doing. Daisies never had much of a scent to you as far as you remember, but when you bend your head and inhale, you sense a mild hint of sunbaked marble and fresh linen. Nothing in the world is so easily dismissible, you know that now.

You've never made a daisy chain in your entire life, either. Consider this dream to be a lesson in it.

The weather is getting a little too warm and the beginnings of sweat prickle on the back of your neck, but you don't do anything about it until your friend does; he's wearing a dark-mauve hoodie that he pulls off over his head as you watch, tossing it lightly to the ground to pillow his head on. You do the same with your jacket, hoping that your movements are casual enough, that you aren't coming across as mirroring him directly. He's never actually said anything about that being a problem during the past years, but you're nervous about it anyway - you're fond of him, not _obsessed_. The jacket is folded up and you lie down next to him, still toying with the daisy chain in your hand, letting out a quiet sigh as shadows sprawl over your upper body.

Neither of you say anything. You don't need to. A lock of his hair is blown sideways by the breeze, tickling your cheek.  
You could look at him or reach upwards with your hand to brush it away, but you don't want to. So you just close your eyes and think about what it would feel like to have long hair like his, how much care goes into maintaining it, and (whimsically) what it might feel like to lie upon it. _I mean, think about it_ , you tell yourself, _he's doing that all the time whenever he lies down, I wonder if it makes his pillows feel extra soft..._

He laughs above you, and you blush. Communication doesn't have as many barriers in a dream, you see; a thought as loud as _that,_ he couldn't help but be aware of it. Rest assured that he can't actively invade your mind to read anything else. If anything, that's what _you_ are capable of doing to _him_ and even _yourself_. Isn't recursiveness fun? Not that you-as-you-know-it have any wish to do that right now. Anyway, he lifts his head and tidies his hair again, showing you that sadly he doesn't have enough to go around just yet; had his hair been longer, he'd have gladly splayed it out to the side to let you brush your cheek against it. Then he makes as if to hold your hand before glancing down at what you have - the daisy chain a very loose bracelet around your wrist - before smirking, pushing his own hand through the chain, and only _then_ locking his fingers with yours, lazy yet firm. His fingertips are pleasantly rough, but his palm is soft, his golden skin a vivid contrast with your pale, creamy own.

It's surprising, how much of him you manage to notice - before you even realize that you've forgotten to breathe.

 _Oh_ , you whisper again, turning quite pink and grateful that he's not looking at you. The chain is pulled pleasantly tight around both of your wrists, binding you to each other, fragile but holding. What's more, he's holding your hand expressively, thumb stroking firmly over the side of your index finger, then rubbing just once over your thumbnail, adding a reassuring squeeze to tell you that he will always be there for you. Nothing else matters nor feels true to you now, not when this is happening, this dream contact far more vibrant and real than the countless other real-life times that you have held hands.

 _Oh, I'm so happy_ , you breathe, and don't care that he hears. _I'm so happy, Guy._

Your friend looks at you for a long while. You don't avoid his gaze this time. He reminds you of a bluebird, bright-eyed, inquisitive, a faint rose-like tint colouring his cheeks and the curve of his lower lip as he surveys every inch of you that he can see. Then he laughs, his eyes softening, and he exclaims a _Thomas_ in his slightly-brash and boyish voice - and that _voice_ , your _name_ , the way he always pauses after the second syllable to emphasize that yes, it's _you_ who he's thinking and talking about in whatever speech he's attempting to make - it's so lovely that you don't know what to do with yourself. The answer ( _Oui_?) swells in your throat as you try to say it out loud, you are literally _speechless_ with bliss and then _oh my_.

In contrast to how your dream felt, your awakening is rude and unceremonious. You jolt awake and sit up, gasping for breath as you look down at yourself, and find yourself in a literal mess.

\-----

...

It's really hard trying to pretend that this is a passive second-person account.  
So. This is your narrator. Hope you don't mind me; I want a piece of the action, too. And _I_ don't know how you can stand Proust, nor how you've still managed to remain as yourself after having thumbed through a hundred pages of him, but there you are. Adjusting your glasses over the bridge of your nose, you turn page after page rapidly, a childlike fascination on your features as your eyes dart over the words. Even as I narrate this you've just gone past where the boy's put his bookmark; you smile, impressed at how far he's made it in, and carry on.

I wonder if you read Proust because he makes you feel particularly intelligent or astute. Just saying, of course, I'm not claiming that you _aren't_ either of those things. Quite the contrary.

You glance up at the clock. Two fourteen. It's not quite time yet. Your gaze falls to the bowl of butter-caramel popcorn on the floor. Seeing that there's still plenty to go around, you contemplate taking a couple; that slight longing for a refreshment or two has only intensified in you since you began reading, and seeing as there's not a spot of tea nor a madeleine to be found nearby, something else will have to do. The popcorn, it looks lovely and tempting, and considering your sweet tooth, it's a wonder how you've managed to resist the urge until now.

Though, I do advise you, it would be preferable that you leave that alone. It's not yours. You made it, I guess, but it's not _yours_ specifically - no, it was made to share, and _necessarily_ with that boy in mind. Eating any of it without him would be bad form.

 _But surely that's not quite what's happening_ , I can hear you - um, _sense_ you, more like, I guess - debating with yourself. If it was made by you, _you_ ultimately get to decide who eats it; you also know that the boy ate plenty of the popcorn beforehand, so it's not like he missed out on anything. That's the strongest case you have against consuming the popcorn, really, the boy - had it been the case that he'd eaten none of it, or was saving it for later, you'd have turned away from it and not given it a second glance throughout the entire night. But that wasn't what transpired, and quite frankly, to me it looks like you want any and all kinds of excuse that'll allow you to eat this popcorn with a good conscience. The clock ticks twenty past and you stare up at the ceiling, wondering what to do.

He and other-you are both asleep. It only occurs to you then that you should probably have one of them out of the room for the majority of your visit; you know that you can only be seen to the one you'd like to be perceived by, that isn't your concern. You simply wish to have a meeting face to face without being at risk of waking the other. Oh, great, there you are, picking one up and chewing. How does it feel like to be basically stealing candy from children? _Fantastic_? Well, would you believe that. One of you's quite enough, is the conclusion that you reach with a silent nod and a bemused smile; you tilt your head back towards the ceiling and close your eyes, feeling another small, familiar ache jolting up your spine as you move. You had a good time before you came here, as I might have mentioned previously, and you'd like to remind yourself of that _most_ intimately. Okay, that's quite enough of the popcorn now. As you listen in silence, you hear the faint creak of the bed as someone sits up from it, and know that your plan's done its job _stop eating the popcorn for God's sake_. It's time for you to go.

... There. Good. _There_ you are. Standing up, you listen out for the further sound of footsteps, and hear some not long after that. Then you _finally_ walk out of the room, and go upstairs, the book held loosely in your hand. A narrator's lot is not a happy one, let me tell you that.

\-----

This is still you. You think you've been undetected, but really, everyone relevant knows that you're yourself and awake. Don't worry about that, though, it won't get brought up for a while - what's more important is right in front of you, and it needs taking care of urgently. You don't even need to actually look down and see what's happened, you can _feel_ it well enough, but the light in the room illuminates you and the faint dark stain on your pyjamas true _anyway._

You never thought that there would come a time when you glanced towards the nightlight and _cursed_ it being there, but there you are. What can you do about it but accept it, like so many of us do? You're no different to them.

At least he's not awake, you console yourself feebly (you're wrong, but again, irrelevant at present), but a dismayed moan escapes your lips nonetheless. It's far from the first dream you've ever had about your friend. It's not even the _first_ time that you've seen him in those compromising dreams; but before tonight you've only ever seen him with his back turned towards you, as a vague silhouette, or not even remotely involved with you in any conceivable way. And it wasn't even that compromising, really, what happened in it - you held hands, smiled, and lay side by side under a tree and the gentle summer sun. In terms of sex or 'romance' that accompanies lust, your dream doesn't even have a ranking, because those things are not what you felt in it.

And in full honesty, that's what bothers you so badly. Your feelings towards him are whole and true, so you have become fearful that somehow, by having had this reaction those feelings have been _tainted_ ; that's something you could have done without it ever happening. You've come face to face with this situation too quickly to understand any different. Eager to get rid of the problem (and now feeling uncomfortably sticky) you push the covers back and get out of bed. It's too cold outside compared to the warmth you've gotten used to in the past couple of hours; you adjust too fast and trust too quickly, there's one of your life's problems for you right there. Taking a step forwards, you shiver quietly as the cool air hits you where it's still damp and sensitive, making you tense all over; you almost want to curl up and moan again, entirely out of shame and not at all from pleasure, but you press on.

The drawer is slid open and you fetch a new pair of boxers, and a new set of pyjamas while you're at it. Might as well change the top, too. Then you leave the room, quietening your footsteps as much as possible.  
Your friend's pyjamas are checked red, yours is checked blue; you're sad to be breaking the balance, but there's not much you can do about that. He can never see what's happened to you.

(You think.)

\-----

Two thirty. Halfway through your night. A monumental occasion.

You emerge from the bedroom.  
You emerge from the top of the stairs.  
You pass by you in the corridor; one of you looks at you as you walk by, but the other you doesn't reciprocate the glance, shuddering instead in what you think is nervousness and embarrassment instead of something genuinely amiss. Morning will be tough for you. _Both_ of you ought to be asleep at this hour, but seeing as one of you has no intention of doing that tonight, you won't feel very rested when daylight comes. Though it's not all doom and gloom, I suppose, for the other you. What's sleep but mere trifle compared to laying the foundations for a noble, exciting goal?

 _... We're up all night to the sun,_  
_We're up all night to get some,_  
_We're up all night for good fun,_  
_We're up all night to get lucky._  
_We're up all night to get, we're up all night to get_ , mm- _hmm_ , oh _yeah._

... That's not going to come in handy for a very long time yet, but you'll remember it when you need it. I'd almost demand royalties for those lines if you had any idea of my existence, but the fourth wall is too strong in you. And there you both go, now, where you're meant to be.

Let us resume.

\-----

The bathroom lights click on. It is white and much too bright, Wincing, you shut your eyes and enter as quickly as you can manage, pushing the door shut behind you and walking further into the bathroom as you set down the bundle of your pyjamas and boxers on the edge of the bath. The bathroom fan is going strong and you feel very dizzy, empty white noise filling your ears and doing nothing to assuage the confusion deep within you.

It's so cold. _Why_ is it so cold?

You take a deep breath. You unbutton your top first and cast it aside. It's clean, but you can't wear that with dark navy pyjama bottoms, it just wouldn't fit. That would give away the accident you've had if nothing else would, best to do a full change and hope for the best. So you swallow back your unease and pull down and step out of the pyjama bottoms, giving it a quick check with your fingers to see how stained it is.

Not very. Off it goes in the laundry basket, bundled together with the top.  
Then you pull off your boxers and look down. Yep, this is still you.

A chill runs through your body; you clench the boxers in your hand and shiver even more, cheeks flushing with humiliation despite the fact that no one is watching you now. (Well, save for me, but I'm safely 'here' as opposed to there where all the acton is, so I wouldn't count.) There you are, curled slightly forwards, naked and trembling and unsure what to do - it's hardly the first time you've experienced something like this, but it's never involved him so closely before, never have you thought that he could be someone like _that_ for you...

 _Oh_ , you whisper, your voice breaking. Raising your eyes to the mirror you stare at yourself, a dark pink flush settled over your cheeks, every single inch of you tensed from the cold. Out of a subconscious will to be comforted you wrap your arms around yourself, then roam your hands down your still-juvenile body, for once wishing intensely that you _were_ grown up and had everything sorted out in your life. That whatever your body did, it would feel as if it belonged to _your body_ , not some strange biological machine that operates according to its own whims. Even now it doesn't feel real, and it makes you worry whether your thoughts about your best friend aren't _really_ as pure as you would prefer them to be.

You don't like that. It's not that you would object to being with him, far from it; it's that you two _don't need to be that way_ , not at this time in your lives. That's just not where the point is, in other words. You're fifteen and he's sixteen; you are perceptive enough to know that neither of you can handle this kind of sensuality in a practical and sensible manner. There's no way you could come clean about any of this, he might laugh at you or things might become too awkward to handle - but you also know that if he'd had a similar experience to you, you wouldn't know what to feel about it, either.

The thought of him dreaming about you and making a mess makes you blush again. You _vaguely_ like the thought, but before that, you know that you'd feel embarrassed _for_ him. You look down at your boxers and toss them into the sink, running a mixture of hot and cold water onto them - one of those would make the stain set, you heard, but you don't remember which and are too tired and embarrassed to care. Your inner thighs feel sticky and you shudder as you move, numbly wetting one half of a towel and wiping yourself clean. Only then do you grab the soap and get to eliminating every last trace of your accident.

It's kind of endearing watching you do that. I know the kind of dreams you're going to have in the future, you see, all the way up to your adulthood. I know how you will be dealing with situations like those in the future, too, and even though your movements will become more clinical over time, that primal flutter in your chest will never go away. And no, you will never dream about anyone else during those times, not even when you're in relationships or are sleeping with different people.  
This is also supposing that we're talking about the relatively-happy times, too. Your mind wanders as you squeeze water out of your boxers and toss them in the laundry basket as well; you are unable to stop yourself from imagining (just slightly, just briefly) what it would feel like for you to be nude with him, what his touch would feel like transferred to other parts of your body, what he would look like when pleasured. That makes a part of you stir very faintly and you hold back a brief groan, your fingers twitching unconsciously at the thought.

(Be careful what you wish for, my child. Be very careful. You might just dream about it.)

"... _Guy_..."

But you don't touch. It doesn't feel _right_. No, regardless of what's happened, this isn't the _essence_ of what you feel for him - to do that would be to cheapen the relationship between you and him, or so you feel. Strongly enough for you to dismiss the thought altogether, even. Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo can be many things, but he was not created for you alone, and you understand that. Closing your eyes you think back to the dream and remember how good his touch had felt on your skin, good in the foundational and affirmative way: _hey, Thomas,_ you can almost hear him laughing _, here I am and here you are and I'm so glad that you are!_

That, _that_ is the bare essence that you're seeking. Your dream was innocent, because you are innocent. What happened to you doesn't change that.

When you pull on the fresh boxers you wince and have to lean against the wall for a second or two; it's still very sensitive for you down there, the fabric brushing against your skin almost riling up your body again towards a base, empty _heat_. (I don't want to say 'pleasure' because that isn't the name you'd give to this sensation.) But you ignore it as best as you can and put on the trousers and the top; once you are dry and fully clothed, you feel much better about things. For one, you are no longer as cold, and that means the magic is beginning to wear off.

Off you go again.

\-----

This observation is taking place simultaneously with the one stated above. I'm presenting those in linear order so it doesn't immediately _look_ like it, but trust me here.  
I'm not trying to make a statement about which you is _better_ , those two observations could have been in any order; I mean, this _is_ still you, yes? _Ja._ That should be enough reassurance.

The bathroom door is just closing at the far end of the corridor when you enter the bedroom. The rumpled outline of you is on the bed, alongside your guest of honour. (Although you aren't entertaining him in the sense of hospitality, mind.) His eyes are closed, his hands are behind his head and he looks peaceful, though his breathing is heavier, indicating that he is awake. It wouldn't be polite to interrupt his reverie, so you take a seat by the desk, spread open the book and resume from where you began. The nightlight throws some colour upon your skin and for a few minutes you feel whole and of this world.

Not that you aren't, but it's not often that you feel that way.

Ah, he moves!  
You turn your head to look at him just as his eyes slide open and he glances towards you. And this might sound overly egoistical, but I - I too am shivering with excitement, watching from this distance (ever so close and yet so far) as he stares at you and you stare at him. You have to credit the boy's nerves, he doesn't even look frightened or surprised; no, he merely blinks at you when the minute hand of the room clock ticks forwards, his expression otherwise unchanged. Impressed by his integrity and yet mindful that he might not be perceiving you properly, you shrug and turn back to your book. You can wait.

... Or not. Amend that last bit. He mouths to himself that he must be dreaming and turns away from you, hiding his face, and you just can't have that. You have always been afraid of being assimilated, never _mattering_ to the extent that you wish to be, though none of this anxiety was ever due to your own fault. That's simply the lot that you were given and have to work with. Hastily you push the chair away and kneel down next to where the boy is, staring right into his face; your eyes fall upon his lips, which are moving in ways intrinsically familiar to you. First comes denial and a countdown towards what he thinks is truth and the waking world, but somewhere deep down inside he is aware that this is his reality. You know that too, and that's why you wait until the golden moment when he uncovers his eyes, takes a deep breath - pauses - and opens his eyes to look.

Even under the honeyed glow of the nightlight his eyes are blue, even-toned and circled with bold hazel on the outside. His pupils are dilated with shock, his expression frozen in what hasn't even quite crystallized into fear. His left hand is clenched into a light fist by the side of his face and you gently pry his fingers open, stroking once over their undersides and his palm to flatten out your new writing surface.

Now.

You should say hello. But how _do_ you go about it? You've fairly locked him into place, only his eyes able to follow you at this moment, and you're not so detached as to think that he'd find this to be a pleasant experience. Complimenting him on his Proust-reading skills doesn't get you very far. He looks positively _terrified_ and that makes you feel bad and you should feel bad. You didn't mean to frighten him, oh no, and you certainly didn't mean to imply that he might be dead or in a non-mortal plane of existence altogether. God forbid! I think that place is crowded enough as it is, that would be bad. You try to amend this by informing him that you are very much alive, and that you know this from having just come from a night of good honest sex; this only succeeds in adding _more_ anguish to his expression and you inwardly sigh and shake your head, smiling. You were under the impression that he might have been a hot-blooded youth much like someone else you know, but - well, not quite. No matter, that's not the primary thing you're looking for in him anyway. This moment of fondness is duly interrupted when other-you walks in, gazing furtively around the room, and lays back down on the bed without noticing that he is awake.

You'd frown, but he's watching you, so you don't. Inwardly you are quite annoyed that you had to walk back in, though you know that if there's anyone that you can't quite tame nor get close to, it's yourself. Contrary to your general vanity and self-assurance you don't actually like yourself all that much, so whenever you see you in all your innocence and overt softness, you don't know how to handle it because you're long past the point of being able to identify with that fully. No, it's not _logical_. You don't care. Nevermind that this boy wasn't meant to be your charge in the first place; you would have had the infinitely easier job of taking care of yourself had certain events not happened as they did. You have become a foreign country to yourself, and this is the cause of at least some of your woes.

Not all, but some. There are plenty of others to go around, and plenty that you're sure can be solved with this boy in front of you.

 _We're connected._ From the moment you saw him, you recognized in him an energy long lost and missed; you can't let him go now. Of course you have no false hopes along the lines of thinking that this boy is capable of understanding the grand causal chain of the world - if he refuses you, there's nothing you can do about that. But you have to try, seeing as you've made all this effort and have shown yourself in a light far truer than anything you've shown him before (and will for a while). On his palm you write the beginnings of a new story, inviting him to collaborate with you on what will prove to be a journey not otherwise possible without one such as yourself. As I mentioned before, you are a reader - and oh, what more could you possibly want out of a tale?

 _It has to be you,_ you tell him, ignoring his expression of confused terror as best as you can manage _, I will be waiting in Montmartre._  
And the die has been cast. This has been your final message; now you must leave, you've done well but the figurative clock is ticking its figurative midnight. You are fundamentally not where you are meant to be and must withdraw before you can see progress. There will be plenty of it, I promise, and your escape shall be swift and elegant, befitting to you.

But remember, my darling -

"Now _wait just a second_ -!"

_\- don't leave your glass shoes behind._

\-----

You reach for the bathroom light-switch, and flick it off listlessly. It doesn't press down properly the first time, but on the second go, the darkness that you wanted envelops you. Back to your room you go, where the light(s) of your life are waiting to confirm to you that you're still yourself. You are like a guest to your own bedroom, pausing hesitantly in your doorway to see that nothing truly is amiss. The new pyjamas fit you nicely but they still feel foreign to you, too tight for what you've become, almost.

He's still asleep. Good. You walk in properly and lie down on the bed; his face is turned a little away from you so that you can't really see it. Keeping your body away from him chastely you nevertheless lie on your side and gaze at him with muted admiration for the entirety of two seconds before closing your eyes.

Crisis averted, you think to yourself.  
Nevermind the fact that he's actually awake and half paralyzed with terror, and that it's also all your fault. In less than two hours you will awake, not minding my presence here by the window, and briefly have to play the role of a prince. (You'll be successful, but that's not the point.) Shellshocked and exhausted, he will tell you all about the dream that _he_ had, then after you've heard him out will ask to be taken back to bed for a couple of hours; he will fall back asleep clutching your hand and asking you not to leave until he's truly out of it, and you'll do that with butterflies swirling in your heart. There is very little that I could demand and you'd refuse in turn, knowing how you are. Rest assured that you remain a good person.

... Oh, did I say 'I'?  
He. That's what I meant. _He._ Sorry for the confusion.

Your sleep is light this time, but dreamless and peaceful. I can do nothing for you, changing events to come being so fundamentally outside of my powers as narrator, but I can tell you to enjoy your rest for the night. There won't be much of it but it will be enough, and like I said, you'll be rewarded in a few hours with the image of your best friend, your guide and other half reliant entirely on you for once. He will lay his human head on your faithful arm and go to sleep, oblivious to the intensity of your feelings; but this won't hurt you as much as it could well do, because you are not yet at a stage where you _expect_ anything in return for your emotions. As long as your friendship remains secure, and as long as his kindness is devoted to you and he remains unhurt. you would be happy.

What did I tell you. You are a good person. The narrator said so, therefore on _some_ level it must be true.

Sleep well, dear child, everything will be all right.

\-----

Three thirteen in the morning. This is still you. This will be the final observation.

Your work done, your exit is quick and polite. When he's not looking, you seep through the floor and drop smartly back into the living room; his mingled distress and relief at not seeing you there hits you the moment you straighten up, and you smirk, knowing what's about to happen to him in a few minutes. You can't see as far as I can, but that much you know.

_Hmm._

Even after watching all of this, I'm still not completely sure why you're compelled to do those things - or rather, what strange chain of events have led us all into this situation - but that is not my place to ask. All you and I know is the fact that all that will happen will happen. You still have _Swann's Way_ held in your hand, and if you're going to keep up the illusion you should put it back where it belongs...

... But you don't do that. No. Tucked neatly under your arm it goes, then you bend down to grab another handful of popcorn, chewing on it appreciatively as you gaze at where you came in.  
Oh, I see. Instead of leaving your glass shoes behind, you... you just took _more_ than you came with. That's as good a way of leaving a trail as anything else, I guess? I mean, _I_ sure can't do anything about whatever-it-is that you think that you're doing, I don't exist in a state where I can intervene with your actions. I suppose the boy needs some way of knowing that your visit wasn't just a dream, otherwise he would be all too happy to dismiss your presence. You simply don't mean as much to him as he does to you, not yet.

The same thought crosses your mind, and you frown, clenching your fist unconsciously. You still had a couple of pieces of popcorn in that hand, and they crumble and fall to the floor. Your own breadcrumb trail for the boy to follow, except with popcorn. We ought to move with the times, _nein?_

Take a breath. Relax. It's nothing directly against you. Remember, as long as he possesses a level of adoration against the other you, he cannot escape from you nor claim to _not_ care about you. That thought settles your mind just a little, and you take a deep breath before walking forwards and through your exit. A flock of doves startle and flutter away when you emerge, flying a few meters up to perch on a roof, staring at you beady-eyed as you leave. You'd like to feed them or join them, maybe, but you think better of it.

Silent night. As you gaze up at the nearby streetlight it flickers and goes out. Back you go to your realm of the shadows.  
And I sit here and observe you from the window, thinking how ironic it is that you fancy yourself in control of your emotions; as you walk you are slowly rationalizing the events of the night to yourself. You believe that what you have done suffices, and that you don't wish to continue with your role in this particular part of the story unless prompted. Enough now, your posture says, it seems to be announcing that you will interfere no longer; you believe that it is all up to me, I mean him, now that all of this has transpired. You are quite reassured in your belief that should the boy not visit you, you'd be quite content to let the entire matter drop and end the tale that you have begun at this point.

It's a shame to contradict you in this regard, my most beloved paradoxalist, but you won't be. Thankfully we will never have to consider that possibility, for soon I, I mean he, will indeed come to you. Countless are these kinds of observations available to one such as I, Crydamoure, able to gaze upon the expanse of the world as if searching through a tome. But the night remains deep yet and he, I mean I, I mean _we_ have discovered the trail that you left behind in your exit; all this has been more than enough for one night, and to allow time for the figurative ink of this story to dry, it seems that we might as well stop here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for Thomas's POV of this scene, HOW ABOUT ALL OF THEM INSTEAD :D  
> This is the only time in Wanderjahre that literally _everyone involved_ was together in the same room. Poor Thomas, thinking that he was alone - oh, he was wrong, he was _so very very wrong._ The more you know, eh?
> 
> Doubtless you have a lot of questions. The sidestories are far more explanatory than the actual chapters and this one didn't warrant more external notes/references, but I think it raises plenty of questions as much as it might have answered several. Please feel free to throw kudos, comments and [questions in my ask box](http://wanderjahrethefanfiction.tumblr.com/ask) along the way! <3


	11. Side Story 02: Der Wunsch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I think you need to have read basically all of Wanderjahre for this one. Of course this is being updated a full year after the story was published, so I think this isn't much of a worry.  
> * This story was published 19/Jun/2015.  
> * This story supports the 'astral projection'/'spiritual medium' interpretation of the Wanderjahre!Labels.

**Wanderjahre (Side Story 02) - ' _Der Wunsch_ '**

\---------------

Sunlight kissed Roulé's eyes wide open around six o'clock in the morning, with minutes to go yet before his alarm rung. He reached out to the side, still gazing straight up at the ceiling, to turn off the small clock on the bedside table with naught but a soft click (press down on the switch, hold for three seconds); once he was satisfied with that, he closed his eyes again and leaned further into the pillows, burying himself deeper into the sheets. He was fully awake, yes - Roulé was a deep sleeper, but by no means a _lethargic_ one - but he wasn't done flirting with the new day just yet, and let the gentle caress of the morning sun wash over his cheeks and down his long pale neck, spreading luxuriously across his shoulders, illuminating them quite golden.

He breathed in, then breathed out, a lazy smile tickling the corners of his mouth. With the coy grace of a well-loved youth he grasped the ends of the covers and tugged them up beneath his chin, nuzzling into the feathery-white softness - before he sighed again, opened his eyes, and sat up to begin his day. Out there, just beyond his window, the dim noise of the _Victoire_ celebrations could be heard, but his concern did not lie with them for the time being. _Some_ people were out there, celebrating. He wouldn't be one of them, work was work and he had plenty of it lined up even on a day like this.

And that was fine. Roulé approached the matter with both infinite patience and a gentle, nigh childlike disappointment. For despite everything, he _was_ capable of being worn out, and he wasn't exactly one to turn down a holiday if he could have one.  
Still. People needed cheer even during days like those, and if he could give it, then he was happy to do so. Roulé brushed the covers off his shoulders with almost a paradoxical reverence, climbing out of them without a sound and laying them to lie perfectly flat against the bed. He then sat down again, clasping his hands together, closing his eyes and lightly bending his head for a moment. (His lips moved not at all, not that he would have been capable of saying anything.) This was his way of paying his respects to the new day, every morning as soon as he awoke; as eternal as he was, the longer he went about his life in this plane of existence, the more he was growing to realize how precious each day was. The sun grazed his form from behind, bringing his rich honey-blonde hair into the light for only a second before the star clouded over and disappeared briefly from sight; Roulé stayed there for exactly as long as the sun took to re-emerge, and when he stood up, his curls had turned a lovely brown, as dark as ganache and gleaming flashes of hazelnut whenever he moved.

The first thing he did proper was to open the windows. He'd gone to bed without clothes the night before, and by all definitions of the word was entirely and unashamedly nude as he walked over and pushed aside the curtains. He was not a stranger to being naked in his own home, nor walking around freely like it whilst alone, though because of those facts he tended to be at precarious risk of being observed from the ground. Of course one couldn't _possibly_ comment on whether anybody who just happened to be gazing upwards from the street had ever seen him, during all of his years living in Montmartre (and he had never lived anywhere _else_ in Montmartre) - but it could be reasonably assured that if anyone did see him they would have been impressed, if quite bemused at the same time, and that he really wasn't observed all that often anyway. As he pushed open the window and inhaled the sweet morning air, the faint music and cheers in the distance also drifting in, the curtains fluttered in the breeze and hugged gently around his tall lithe body, shielding him from the world.

What a _beautiful_ day it was!

Roulé laughed despite himself, holding onto the curtains, and stayed there for a few minutes. The breeze tickled his body in all the right places, kissing his shoulders quite pink, and he tilted his head back and closed his eyes luxuriously at the sensation. Anyone who looked up from the pavement, precisely at that moment, would have thought Roulé a finely-carved statue or model. (Or stark raving mad, but the man would have protested that even less, if that said anything about his personality.) But eventually he decided to stop showing off his body to the cityscape and ready himself for that day's appointments, and turned away from the window without regret.

He changed the sheets and pillowcase without fanfare, from white to a rich burgundy red, and sprayed just a little rose-and-cedar perfume on top of it all. Even so, it was enough to completely overwhelm the last vestiges of his scent - or what he used in lieu of it, anyway. But he was used to that by now, wasn't he? It was a nice perfume, and his clients liked it. Roulé didn't fault his clients for not noticing that he had very little scent of his own, instead melding into the atmosphere like he was entirely defined by what surrounded him; in fact, he suspected that this effect was what subconsciously made them continue their visits to him. When with a client, he _surrendered_ to their air and body in a sense that no other human could replicate.

Leaving the lighter notes of the perfume to evaporate, Roulé then opened the bedroom door and stepped outside, gazing at the place bathed in sunlight. For a moment he contemplated making himself a cup of coffee, but thought better of it - he had plenty of time to laze around, but he could do that once he'd washed himself and mentally readied himself for the day. Everything had a place and time, even procrastination. So he made a straight beeline towards the bathroom and stepped into the bath, reaching for the showerhead and glancing back to re-check if he'd put out a fresh towel last night.

He had. Excellent. Roulé turned the water on, twisted the knob to two dots away from the hottest setting, and set the pressure to high.

"..."

That was all he needed to say about it, closing his eyes in bliss.  
Well, that was all he _could_ say, but that didn't mean that the sentiment wasn't present.

It was difficult for Roulé to maintain a liveable warmth around him most of the time. So over time he had grown used to living the unliveable, there being certain things that he simply couldn't fix. But he enjoyed heat whenever he could get it, absorbing it inside himself with an intense hunger. He was quite chilly below his knees, that being where the shower spray failed to maintain its temperature, but it was better than what he usually existed in. As he reached for the shampoo, he felt his body finally release the early-morning tension that he'd built up, and he leaned against the tiled wall with a quiet sigh. This drew his attention to the part of him that required _close_ attention to relax, and Roulé pondered upon that for a while, he truly did. He didn't want it to distract him - but on the other hand, that wasn't something he could comment on now, was it? He hadn't even had a proper breakfast, he had a full day ahead of him; what was a little interlude like this, _really_ , in the grand scheme of things? He was too energetic to be distracted by something as minor as that, and besides, well, it was _almost_ the first thing in the morning.

Roulé considered for a few seconds more. Then he let a mischievous smile tug at his lips, coyly drawing the shower curtain around himself only then, one hand roaming playfully from his lips down to his chest, tracing the slight inward curve of his stomach, and further downwards. Soon the mirror over the sink was clouded with pearly-white steam, condensation dripped hotly down the tiles, and the man's morning began in the most _satisfying_ way.

\-----

Breakfast! The most important meal of the day, bar none.

Roulé didn't bother to get dressed even after his shower, preferring to move about with only a towel tied neatly around his waist. He was thoroughly unconcerned with drying himself (because he did not _need_ to do so, strictly speaking) nor did he feel an urgent need to put on any clothes, when he was going to be out of them again before long anyway. Besides, he hadn't picked out an outfit for himself just yet, and he was not one to act hastily whenever fashion was concerned. Roulé sat on his bed, only barely resisting the temptation to lie down on it once more, and glanced out of the window again, shivering slightly as the heat from the shower faded away all too fast - it wasn't the most comfortable, but he managed to ignore it in favour of considering his breakfast.

It was now half past six. His first client was due to arrive on the dot at nine. He had plenty of time to make himself a fine meal, and maybe get some baking started while he was at it. His clients always appreciated a biscotti or two to whet their appetites, after all, and as for his specialties (not to be started yet, not that day) he'd had either apple or raspberry Danishes in mind for a few days now, all warm and tart and sugar-sprinkled with just the _naughtiest_ pinch of cocoa on top. Roulé was fairly certain that _one_ of those flavours would work out for both himself and his charge, anyway, he'd think about it when he was less occupied. Roulé was sitting there thinking for a while, almost reverent in his attitude towards his daily meal, before he decided on a croissant sandwich with lettuce, tomato, a few slices of _bayonne_ \- he might even grill one half of the croissant lightly with cheese on top, if he was being luxurious - and promptly left the room. He would have made straight for the kitchen had he not noticed the light blinking by the phone. Taking a detour, he approached it with a questioning look on his face, wondering who could have called him during the night - or perhaps it was just now? He wouldn't know, he slept very deeply and the sound of the shower could have drowned the phone out easily.

Four messages. He pressed the button and listened.

 _"Bonjour!"_ the man quirked his eyebrow in recognition. _"it's me, Roulé, remember our four o'clock appointment? Plans changed at my end. I'll have to push it back to the next time I'm penciled in, this Friday if I remember right, and at the same time. But you still ought to be paid for today, it's all on me for springing this onto you at such short notice - when the Victoire's over I'll get that sorted straight away. Until then."_

"..."

Well, _that'd_ been unexpected. The answering machine took over again, the carefully-scripted monotone asking him whether he wanted to repeat the recording or move onto the next. Roulé, meanwhile, stood there for a moment with a blank look on his face as he let the message and its implications sink in; once it did, though, he turned wide-eyed back to the other messages, suddenly realizing what all of those must have been left for.

"...!"

And he was not wrong. The next one began without a greeting, narrated in a calm, smooth woman's voice, remarking on something similar to the previous person's message: that plans had changed, that she would have to put off dinner arrangements with him until next time, and that she was sorry for the short notice, followed by the statement that she'd transferred his payment to him anyway (' _that's only fair, non?_ '). The third said outright that he was cancelling to let Roulé enjoy a day off, and the fourth had been called out to work unexpectedly. He flickered back and forth between the four messages, just long enough to confirm the important details each time, still somewhat in disbelief that this had happened; none of those people knew each other, they couldn't have conferred between them or anything. This was a demonstration of pure chance and good-heartedness.

_"You take care of yourself, won't you? Our next two dinners are on me-"_

_"- so I'll see you tomorrow at ten, and I'll bring the champagne, it's the least I can do..."_

_"- enjoy your Victoire, Roulé!"_

_"Good day to you, Roulé! Rest well!"_

_"Bye!"_

_"Have a lovely day!"_

By the end of all of them, Roulé was well and thoroughly grinning, bright-eyed like a child; a slightly abashed, though proud, pink had settled on his cheeks. It wasn't just because he now had an impromptu holiday. Sometimes he just really needed to be reminded - or else, the notion slipped his mind - that his clients actually enjoyed being with him and wished him only the best, and having four different people confirm it at this early an hour? He was a person whom a single compliment could cheer up for the whole day, so right now he was _incredibly_ flattered, to say the least. He would need to personally thank them when he saw them next, perhaps with a heartfelt note or some extra time together.

That was the gift of _uncertainty_ , he supposed. Being unsure of himself, his future, and what the people around him thought of him often made him anxious - but it also meant that he was capable of being sincerely and pleasantly surprised by the kindness of human beings. He had _not_ been created with that ability, unlike most people, and every time he experienced it he marvelled at the feeling. His spirits lifted, he placed the receiver down and returned to his room, perching comfortably upon his bed.

Well. What now?

Roulé preferred adhering to schedules. Any time some kind of occurrence caused him to deviate from it, he became nervous. But even though all of his plans had been derailed for the day, because he was now under no obligation to greet anyone or do anything, he felt quite a lot freer than he had expected to be and was very glad for it. It wasn't often that he could claim to be _free of responsibilities_ , having a deceptively large number of them to deal with at any point in his week or day.

Perhaps any other day he would have given into his youthful whims and went out to be _irresponsible_ , as much as he was capable of doing so, but something about the atmosphere sobered him up quickly and made him sharply aware of the fact that he would never be free of certain events. He'd only _thought_ that he would spend the _Victoire_ entertaining his clients, but really, this sudden 'freedom' had been inevitable all along, and had he still the ability to observe cause and effect in detail, he would have figured that out quicker.

It wasn't as if Roulé was without help in that department, though, all things considered.  
All of this meant that throughout the day, he would go through a certain sequence of events, all pre-determined by the great causal chain of the world. He simply did not yet know what those events would be, but he would find out. It would help him determine the ideal attitude in which to approach the day, at least, even if the occurrences themselves would not be a surprise. Swinging his long, slim legs over the edge, he leaned down and picked up the black leather briefcase that had been leaning against the foot of the bed; it was well-polished, gold-buckled, and held his books, everyday essentials, cigarettes, toys and the secrets of the entire universe, not that anyone else knew it.

He opened the briefcase. Then he stared into it, unmoving, only blinking now and then.  
He was staring into it for a very long time. Eventually he raised both of his eyebrows, impressed at whatever he was gaining from this little exercise. When he'd had enough, he quietly closed the briefcase and set it on his lap, feeling a little breathless and oddly reverent as he was wont to feel every time he did this. Roulé took a few more minutes to sort out the necessary events in his mind, planning out his new day purely through thought, as opposed to meticulous calculations with his fountain pen. (There was no time for that.) Only when he was confident on what he could expect did he stand up and push the briefcase aside.

The croissant sandwich could wait another day. He needed to get dressed. It was time to pay his favourite restaurant a visit.

From what he'd seen, he'd do well to look informal but not too informal today. From his wardrobe he pulled out a suit jacket, a neatly-tailored but otherwise unremarkable grey one with polished black buttons, and set that upon the bed. The rest of his outfit was chosen quickly, though not without care: a long-sleeved white shirt, a gold-buckled belt, and dark trousers that hugged neatly around his slim legs and waist. No tie or pair of cufflinks were selected, however, he'd leave those for another time; he left the front two buttons of his shirt open and swept a hand through his still-damp hair, his luscious curls unravelling beneath his fingers to create a neatly-slicked, straight sheen. A look that he seldom gave himself, except for special occasions, and for good reason too - curled hair was vastly more authentic and comfortable. But Roulé had the feeling that he wasn't to be _recognized_ today - by whom exactly, he had only the faintest idea, but if that was what the briefcase commanded, well, he had to do it. At least he supposed that he had the solace of having his curls return after a good night's sleep. Roulé set a pair of aviator sunglasses atop his head and examined himself in the mirror, testing how he looked - frowned - and slid his glasses off to put the sunglasses on properly. Better. Some stubborn part of him protested that he _really_ wanted them on his head, so much that he almost didn't take them at all, but eventually he settled for pocketing the sunglasses when he had no need of it. That same part of him also insisted on him taking a pocket square, even though he wasn't sure what use he would have for it. At least he could tuck that in somewhere and forget about it until he needed it, not that he thought he would.

Was that everything? He thought it was.  
He paused only to fetch something from the fridge and put it carefully into his briefcase before he left the apartment. The sun couldn't stop kissing his hair good morning, or so it seemed.

\-----

There was once a girl struggling to get by in Paris, then twenty-two years old and fresh from the shores of Britain.

She called herself Beatrice, though that was not her real name, and she was comfortable using it only around those she trusted. Back then she knew precious few of those people, understandably so, as adjusting to a foreign country is seldom a struggle-free affair for anyone. She had an especially difficult time, too, not that it meant anything about her resilience; even the best can falter under such circumstances. She had come to study, to settle if possible - she was here to form attachments - so she had known from the beginning that she had to be brave or else return.

Her life was busy and difficult for a good long eight months. By nights she studied sign languages: two were in her repertoire, British and French, the latter of which she was studying purely for the sake of completion. By day, she either attended university as a part-timer or worked in a restaurant that had taken her on. It was located almost the entire length of Line 4 from where she lived, but it was doable, and it was good money. But it wasn't good _enough_ money that she could have ignored the overly-bustling, impatient - sometimes downright _hostile_ \- atmosphere that her co-workers initially created, either. Part of it was culture clash, but that was hardly an excuse. If not for that one incident, she likely would have quit and made her luck elsewhere.

The details of that one incident forever remained clear in her mind. "There's a customer out there," she had been told brusquely, after being stopped unceremoniously in the middle of serving a table. "you'll have to take him, apparently he's mute, he asked if there was anyone who could sign in this restaurant and you're the only one."

"I'm not that fluent yet," she protested nervously, not appreciating the interruption. The table she had already was proving to be a handful, she wasn't sure if she could handle one with this additional language barrier, and she _especially_ wasn't sure how her skills would hold up at this moment. "I'll be out there in a minute..."

"Who cares about fluency, hurry and get up there already-"

Granted, it hadn't been the most _elegant_ way to be introduced to who would later prove to be the her most valued customer; when she was unceremoniously pushed into a service in the midst of another, putting a language into practice for the very first time, she'd had little cause to feel anything but anxiety and dread about the entire business. But this feeling, much to her surprise, lasted for all of twenty seconds as she crossed the restaurant and leaned into the waiting area -

_"Bonjour-"_

\- and came face to face with a man whose beauty was so exquisite that she quite forgot her _words_ , whether spoken or signed.

It wasn't that noticeable at first. The waiting area for the restaurant was small, with facing benches that were each long enough to seat maybe two or three people, in an area that was particularly shadowed by the door. When she first looked in, he was gazing away from her, his face part of the shadows; then he looked around, and she was so _dazed_ that for a moment she felt as if she was going overboard with herself, that perhaps he appeared angelic to _her_ and her alone. As absurd as it might have sounded, she would even have preferred such an explanation, she was sure that such a man couldn't be _real._

But there he was, already standing up to greet her as his waitress, grinning as he delicately rested the tips of fingers upon his lips (those _lips!_ ) - then blew a kiss that wasn't quite a kiss, but a signed greeting that drew her inexorably into his world.

_Bonjour!_

She barely knew how she managed to return it, only that she had, and that she had beckoned him through without wasting any more time. Even as she sat him down and handed him a menu she stole a gaze around her surroundings and something inside her heart sank like a stone as she realized that no, she wasn't hallucinating any of this; judging by the stares he was getting, his presence in this restaurant was entirely authentic, and he really was sitting in front of her and looking up at her with much amusement.  
(As time passed she remembered this incident with just as much gaiety, but back then, it'd been _extremely_ daunting.)

 _What would you like to drink, Monsieur?_ she signed after a moment's pause.

 _White wine, please,_ he answered, his movements quick and elegant. _Might you be from elsewhere, Mademoiselle?_

It was a frank question to ask, a _baffling_ one, but she didn't hesitate to answer it. It felt all right to do so with him, somehow.  
_From England. I'm here to study. I'm sorry that my signing isn't so good in French._

Not the most conversational reply, but the man tilted his head and thought for a good long while, and she waited in a mixture of half dread and anticipation. It dawned on her then that she couldn't pinpoint just how old he was. There was something _ageless_ about his features: one particular angle made him look over thirty years old, with the illusion of thin wrinkles around his eyes, while another made him look even younger than her, smooth and almost baby-faced.  
But no, not even that was quite right. He seemed to belong to an entirely different period in time, one that perhaps might not even have existed in reality. God forbid she knew what that meant, but-

_How about this?_

She gaped in surprise. That was English. _He had signed to her in British English._

That was what finally made her give into the urge to stare at him, amazed. The man rested his chin on his hands and grinned up at her, his face so boyish, so full of mischief and yet so _kind_ that she blushed before taking a hurried refuge in the kitchen, even neglecting to give him a proper answer. By this point she really had no idea where this service was going, but it was shaping up to be an incredible one.

All through the rest of her previous service, and this strange, enchanting one, she tried very hard not to stare again at the man. But in the utter absence of sound (she couldn't hear him drink, or his cutlery clinking at all) she couldn't always help it, either, just because she wanted to confirm that he _really was there_. Three times she caught him staring right back, and though she was uncomfortable with most people staring at her - whether out of unwanted attention, a fear of incompetence or other such examples - there was something decidedly non-threatening about him, too. He gazed at her not as a waitress, nor as a passing interest, but as if she were a long-lost penfriend from years ago. She was intimately familiar with such a feeling, penpals being how she had become interested in France as a first place; but how he could tap into such a specific emotion just by _being there_ , that she didn't know. When he paid his bill he tipped her the full amount of what he'd had and walked off with a flourish, pausing just outside the door of the restaurant to stoop down a little, winked at the utterly confused expression on her face, and waved - _goodbye!_ \- in the very language of her heart.

An utterly nerve-wracking, yet charming experience.  
It was not her final encounter with the man. The good news was that it got better over time, until nothing but the sweetness remained.

\-----

All that was _then_ , of course, though it hadn't been too long ago that it had happened.

Sure, Beatrice was older and wiser now. She was still in Paris, and still working day in and day out, though she was no longer primarily a waitress; her shifts in the restaurant were now on alternate days and during lunch hours only, and even then she had progressed to the point where she did not rely on the job's income specifically to make a living. She had been there long enough to be respected by the rest of the staff, too, so she needed to suffer no longer. As of that _Victoire_ , she was also happily engaged, though she hadn't told anyone just yet. A lot had changed in five years; only that strange, charming, mute young man remained a true constant in her life. He hadn't aged a single day since their first meeting, and he still graced her station with that self-same politeness he'd shown on that day - as she marvelled often in those exact words, just because she had known sign language, and that had made all the difference.

Roulé had come again for lunch. Today was a special occasion, apparently. He was alone, which wasn't unusual, but he'd arrived when the restaurant was fuller than the norm. Roulé usually only had a sandwich or a bowl of bisque with coffee when he was by himself, saving full meals for when he had company, but today he was contentedly tucking into a loaded plate of _moules-frites_. There was something different about the way he approached the meal, too; Roulé was a slow eater, always regarding his meals with a mixture of pleasure and utter _puzzlement_ as if he couldn't taste them properly, but he seemed ravenous at the moment, clearly enjoying every bite. It was good to see, but especially more so because it was such an uncommon sight.  
What a strange man he was! Whenever he was around, her mind was abuzz with speculations, never to be confirmed.

There was a lot she still didn't know about him, of course. (This was normal for anyone around Roulé, not that she knew it.)  
It had taken them six months to reach mutual comfort, but when the day was slow and he was otherwise unoccupied, he often asked her to keep him company for the duration of his meal, and she was only too happy to oblige. During those times they would talk in quick gestures, the occasional spoken or written word, and many smiles; within a month they had graduated out of BSL, and after a year or two he was up-to-date on who she was, where she had come from and what she hoped to do in the future. But in turn, what she knew of _him_ was disproportionately little. The only name she could give him was _Roulé_ , which she doubted was his real one. She knew what he did for a living and that he had business in Montmartre to take care of, but what exactly this business was, he refused to tell - all she knew about it was that it was taking an awfully long time, if he still wasn't done with it. She knew nothing about his past or even how old he was. None of this was for the lack of her asking - he himself seemed to have trouble thinking about those things, which eventually led her to believe that he might have suffered some kind of past trauma best never spoken of, and because of that she had graciously ceased all inquiry along those lines. It was a wise thing to have done, and in the long run, was likely the thing which had earned his trust for her. He still came in at least once a week, often more, and never at dinnertime or the height of lunch. He seemed to prefer quiet company and declined to come in for most holidays or festive occasions. Sometimes he was with company, and over the years she had seen him with many different people of varying ages and genders, though he never brought more than one person at a time. He never seemed to be with them long enough for any of them to know him any better than she did.

Not that _knowing little_ about him had ever prevented her giving him good advice, over where to go, what to do, or who to see. She and Roulé were close enough that they sometimes could talk of events in the area, such as a festival or a cocktail evening, which they thought the other would be interested in. It helped that they both had jobs necessarily involving the satisfaction of other people, this ease of conversation had come naturally with a social urge to please.

The only other table she'd had left, and she bid them a goodbye before cleaning up. It only took her a couple of minutes. When she was done she looked over at her enigmatic customer, who'd slowed down on his eating to idly watch the people passing by outside.

Sometimes she feared that one day, whatever business the young man had in Montmartre would be fulfilled, and that he would never return afterwards - no, it wasn't just a mere fear, she was _absolutely certain_ of it. And despite the fact that they saw each other frequently, she never could voice this sense of apprehension around him, for she always had too much to say and he could not speak in return; besides, she knew very little about him even though seven years had passed, and had hardly thought it appropriate at _any_ point to intrude in his personal life. What she also didn't know was that when that day inevitably came (for her instincts had been absolutely correct), it would be nowhere near as painful as she'd feared, and that her life would flow on with ease past the young man's existence until she near forgot that she had ever known him at all.

"... Say, Monsieur..."

It would be for the best. For his charms revolved around more people than she, or anyone else he was involved with in Montmartre, could ever imagine. It was his utmost concern that none of them be too saddened because of his departure, whenever that would be.  
But that was his point of view. _She_ wanted to be able to show her appreciation for him anyway. This was probably all right to ask.

He gave her a small glance, followed by a brief raise of the eyebrows and a light fluttering movement with his right hand. _Oui?_

"Might you be interested in an engagement party?"

 _An engagement party?_ He questioned, before a light of understanding flickered in his eyes. _Yours, mademoiselle?_

"Yes, mine. Monique finally proposed."

_Oh, congratulations! When was this?_

She quietly breathed a sigh of relief; so he wasn't offended after all! It had been a persistent worry of hers, that she would end up being much too forward. After all, this was the first time that she had invited him to a personal occasion. "Four days ago," she said, before appending a signed explanation: _It's on Friday, a small get-together right here, one hour past closing time. I wanted her to meet all the people who helped me to survive in this city over the past five years. It would be criminal to leave you off that list!_

Roulé nodded, raising his eyebrows in an expression that could have been surprise, flattery or both. _Does anyone else who's coming know of me?_

_They know the important things._

_Do any of them know how to sign?_

A conspiratorial smile flickered on her lips for a second. Because really, after knowing him for so long, she knew that confirming this connection was exactly as important for him as it was for her. He seemed to find so few people around besides her who were willing to sign around him; if she had been in the same position, she would have found that to be _supremely_ depressing. That was probably the bare essence of this entire conversation, rather than her engagement or his availability on the needed day. Straightening her back, she raised her index finger and flicked her hand sharply to the right, following this coy gesture up with a slow shake of the same hand.

 _No, Monsieur_ , she said, appealing to the language of _his_ heart, that old small debt repaid at just the right moment. _Just us._

It was such a small thing, an affirmation that took merely seconds and went unnoticed by all else in the restaurant. But by the warm expression on Roulé's face, and that pleasing gleam in his eyes, she had succeeded in convincing him. _I'm sure I can make it. And even if not, I'll be sure to send a gift - my sincere congratulations to the two of you._

"Thank you so much, Monsieur Roulé!" she beamed, and gestured at his plate. "but please don't feel obliged. It means a lot to me that you said yes in the first place. Shall I clear your plates away?"

_Yes, please. I'd like the bill as well, if you wouldn't mind. I'll see you on Friday, then._

"I'll get right to it!"

Roulé raised his right hand with his palm flat for a brief moment to his chin, then held it out again in a smooth sweep, both to express his gratitude and to signal a return to his own individuality. _Merci._  
They smiled at each other, and she felt her mind settle. She wanted to keep him in her life for as long as possible; this was excellent, in its own way. She was happy.

\-----

Roulé's _Victoire_ that year was marked with three tasks.  
One was urgently willed by another, one was desired by himself, and one was of the utmost importance.

This was the first one. The moment Beatrice had asked him to come, he understood what he was to do, and was only too glad to oblige. (Already he was thinking of gift ideas.) She left with the plates and the empty bread-basket while Roulé sat back and downed the last of his wine. Savouring the light, sour note in it that had developed during the past hour or so, he reached for the very last drop that beaded on the rim of the glass and gave it a little lick with the tip of his tongue, all boyish-like and sweet. A couple sitting at the next table over stared at him; he turned his head and winked at them, and they hurriedly turned back to their lunch, blushing up to their ears. He didn't think that they knew who he was, and in that case, it was good that his charm was in full effect.

Shame he didn't have more time here, really. He'd have been very happy to be _acquainted_ with them.

When the bill came, Roulé readied himself to leave, returning the notebook to his jacket and pulling out his wallet instead. He tipped thirty-three percent, said farewell to the waitress with a tip of his hat and a small, polite bow, gave a little wave to the other waiters and waitresses who were watching in mixed delight and envy from either the kitchen or the other side of the restaurant, and left. On his way out he draped his suit jacket around his arm, having thought better of putting it on again; the glowing sun shone upon his bare forearms and face, lending him its much-craved warmth, as he set off to his next destination: the flea market.

Oh, the things to be found in that beautiful, ancient labyrinth!  
Roulé was fond of the place. Almost _too_ fond, even; if he didn't keep to task, there was a very real risk that he wouldn't be able to make it to where he needed to be in time, and that simply wouldn't do. This was an encounter that he _absolutely_ desired to have. According to the briefcase, he would have to find himself at the upper-easternmost part of the flea market before ten past two, but not until after half past one. He entered Pigalle Station, rode two stops ahead, and switched trains to ride one stop further to Simplon; he could have gotten off at the terminus of Line 4 and ended up a comfortable two-minutes’ walk away from the market place, but he was mindful of the strict timing that he had to keep, and thus decided to walk the rest of the way.

Fifteen minutes passed by. It was exactly one forty-two in the afternoon by the time the edgemost market stalls came into his view. Most people were in a celebratory mood, and the bustling crowd were scattered all around haphazardly; just the right place to hide himself in and wait. He was only singled out once in the process of trying to merge with the crowd, by the owner of a baked goods stall who loudly called him over to feed his blushing form a _very_ pink fondant-coated petit-four, all the while deeming him a particularly handsome catch - the middle aged ladies surrounding him chuckled at the sight, which made him blush even harder and make his escape at the first possible opportunity - but aside from that little interruption, he made it where he was supposed to be. It was cool enough there that he could put his jacket back on, too, and he gladly did so.

Numerous stalls and shops surrounded him, all specializing in their particular charm: whether it be crafts, jewellery, chocolate, books, records, jars of jam, honey and marmalade or whatnot, they were all there to delight the eyes. A large hallway linked them all, winding away into a corner and towards the left some fifty metres away from where he was standing. At the very end of that hallway there was what looked like a convenience store or a large newspaper kiosk of sorts, and in his curiosity he made his way towards there; he hadn't seen that around before. That space had once housed a clock-maker and his craft, if he remembered rightly, and he would have felt annoyed about this comparatively-uninteresting addition if he hadn't looked up at that precise moment to see who was leaving it-

"...!"

Those particular clothes were unfamiliar, but he would have recognized the person in them anywhere.  
Long hair, smooth golden skin - it was part of Roulé's task that he _himself_ go unseen, so he had no time to note the further details in his mind, but the man most _definitely_ caught the sight of a mildly-embarrassed Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo stuffing two alcopop bottles into his bag before he quickly hid himself behind a crafts stall, stifling his laughter behind his hand.  
How _naughty!_

There he was, the charming youth who had told him a few days ago that he would not be able to visit Roulé for the _Victoire_. Roulé understood those circumstances, and had graciously accepted them, but the wish in his heart to see the boy just once had been dearer. And for some reason, he was being granted this wish - seeing Guy always settled his mind, so who was he to complain? He took note of Guy's path before silently following, making ample use of the other stalls and shop doorways to follow him back towards the far end of the flea market. Being unseen also meant that no _other_ stranger could notice what he was doing, so he really had to take his time, even if he didn't want to. That, and...

"- Guy, wow, look at _that_ , holy hell..."

... the presence of this _other_ boy was the caveat imposed on Roulé for the privilege of seeing his charge.

"Thomas, I adore you _immensely_ and I'm in full support of your record-collecting endeavours - _but four hundred and twenty francs?_ "

The taller boy shrugged, though he looked rather playfully abashed. "Is it too much, you think?" Guy merely answered with a raised eyebrow, which conveyed answers far beyond a simple yes or no. "and would you think it was a sin to admit that I may _actually_ love Pink Floyd that much?"

" _Oui,_ " Guy deadpanned - before his mouth twitched in a slow smirk, looking near catlike in his impudence. "I see your Pink Floyd and I raise you my Brian Wilson. Oh, don't look at me like _that_ \- what else am I going to compete with, if not other musicians, eh, Thom? Besides, you could probably buy a new turntable altogether with that kind of money-"

"What, to play _more_ Pink Floyd with?"

"Heh. If you _want!_ Preferably ones we already have. _The Wall_ never sounded as good after you spilt water on the last one."

Thomas nudged him heavily, blushing. " _Mon dieu_ , Guy, I got you already... But it's a real shame, isn't it, just to leave this here without a home-"

"Shh. Shh shh. It's all right. Just turn your head ninety degrees to your left, follow up with the rest of your body, and walk away. It'll stop being painful after a few minutes. Why, by the time we're out of Montmartre we won't even remember that this record exists."

"- oh, you're no _fun_..."

But it wasn't exactly as if Guy was wrong in this particular matter. Roulé remained hidden safely behind another craft stall, and he watched as the boys eventually turned and left, not missing for a moment how Thomas almost seemed to be resisting purely for the sake of letting the older boy pull him onwards. Their hands were locked, Guy's fingers were more tightly closed around the younger boy's, and there was a glint of mischief in Thomas's eye - mere juvenile flirtation, though much to the man's annoyance, it _had_ led Guy away and far from his sight nevertheless. From what he knew, it was the last time he would see his charge that day, too; to have to contend with what'd only been a glance, at that! Oh no, he wasn't happy. _This_ hadn't turned out exactly the way he had wanted.

Roulé slipped out from behind the stall and straightened his jacket once the coast was clear. He was frowning.  
It was odd, how _irritated_ he was about this, even though he'd known that it would happen. To get his mind off it he approached the stacked records himself, though he averted his gaze from the specific ones that the boys had been looking at; he bent down briefly to shuffle through a few that he thought he might be able to do with, only to find that they were either records that he already had or were not as well-priced as he'd wanted. (Positively indecent, some of the mark-ups!) Roulé bit his lower lip slightly, only then looking up and glancing back towards where the boys had gone. They would have left the market by now to journey onto wherever they wanted to go next - where that was, the man wasn't much interested in knowing, but he had no doubt that they would remain together. He found that to be supremely aggravating. Sighing, he turned back towards the records, and only then did he let his thoughts drift back to Thomas.

Roulé knew what the boy would go through as he aged. Of course he did. The briefcase had told him all about it, and the briefcase never lied.  
In a month's time, for example, Thomas would be lost in summery bliss, and the whole world would be opened to him like it'd never had been before. He saw the boy a few years on from now, no longer a boy at that point but a _man_ in most senses of the word, lying supine on rumpled sheets, his body warm and slippery and his toes curled most delicately as he was loved. He saw him, pleading for kisses, lips pouted, back arching up and panting lustily as the afternoon wore on around his beloved and himself. When Roulé glanced down at his briefcase, he was refreshed on more details of the boy's future love - _his charge_ \- how softly and yet desperately Thomas would moan beneath Guy (a man by then as well), feeling the older one's mouth brush against the skin of his throat to bruise and kiss it. Thomas would smile afterwards in the other's arms, too, a slightly dazed and yet extremely satisfied one, completely smitten and _finally_ unashamed to show it.

Something ached in his heart. He looked down at himself with surprise - and then again with dismay. That particular event wasn't any of his business, but for some reason it hurt him to think about it. Just out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of himself reflected against a mirror from an opposing stall: he was still handsome, full of charm and wisdom in both mind and body. He was not deficient in _anything_ , save for the time that he had spent around and with Guy, compared to _that other boy._  
But what he didn't acknowledge there was the fact that all of that was only as far as _he_ was concerned. In reality, as separate and unearthly as he was, he was not without fault. Roulé _was_ capable of being a vain creature, and not in a good way, when it came down to it; even though he tried to dial it back where it wasn't warranted, he had to wonder, just this once - yes, he really _did_ put his foot down, and wondered what about him was so _lacking_ compared to Thomas.

But he ought not to have wondered. That was not a thought that he should have entertained for _any_ length of time.  
He knew it, too, and it only made him feel worse.

Granted, the kind of attention he sought from Guy was of a different kind from what Thomas wanted - a gentler, more distant and all-encompassing sort of courtesy, based more around the virtue of _mutual stillness_ rather than passionate, hasty action - but he wanted to be noticed and adored, too, in his own way. The boy had no way of knowing it, but Roulé had come to him bearing the appearance closest to Guy's personal ideal; never mind love, lust, or admiration, he simply resembled the kind of Platonic being that the boy thought of whenever he was asked to picture a _person_ in his mind. He and Guy appreciated each other, as far as he could tell. But Thomas and Guy _lived vivaciously through_ one another. Was Roulé not deserving of that same energy? Or was it not the time yet for him to deserve it? If so, how long did he have to wait? Would it ever come to him at all?

That thought sent a brief chill down his spine. No, he didn't know any of those things, and suddenly wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to know how and when any of this would end, or whether if it would end at all. The briefcase could probably enlighten him, but he made no move towards it; nowadays he couldn't see as far into the future as he once had been able to, not by himself, and he thoroughly detested being reminded of that fact.

(That was probably also why he was so reluctant to accept that he needed to give this relationship time. He wasn't sure how much of it he had left with Guy.)

He finally mustered up the will to look at what the boys had been bickering over. Pink Floyd. _Piper at the Gates of Dawn._  
Roulé wasn't a _major_ fan of Pink Floyd, but he was allowed this one small protest against his state of affairs - and by _God,_ he was going to take advantage of it. That was well worth four hundred and twenty francs, or at least he personally felt it to be so. He tucked the record beneath his arm and moved to the side to pay for it. The stall owner - who'd been standing off to the side, only glancing up now and then from her magazine, up until this point - looked up as he approached. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but hesitated; _something_ about Roulé either fascinated her or put her off, he didn't know which. Not that he was surprised. If he wasn't being treated with irresistible fondness, or otherwise mesmerizing people with his looks and charm, people looked at him as if he intimidated them simply by existing. When he held out the record with a meaningful nod, however, she seemed to understand immediately that he was mute; the magazine was quickly put to the side, and she took the record carefully from his hands, checking the price.

" _Quatre-cent-vingt francs_ ," he already had the cash ready. " _vous voulez un sachet?_ "

Roulé shook his head, and when the record was handed back to him, mouthed a polite _merci beaucoup_ and raised his hand in a goodbye, leaving a slightly baffled but not-discomforted stall owner behind. He tucked the record carefully into his briefcase once he was out of sight, though he only did it with the slightest of glances and didn't open it up fully. Looking into it proper would only distract him. He didn't know why he felt like this - in this one thing he had won, because Thomas would never see nor obtain this record again. He had wanted it far more than Roulé, and when he returned the next time, he would be dismayed at finding it gone, just like the man had wanted. But he couldn't help but feel that he had done the thing that mattered objectively less - that it hadn't been much of a triumph in the long run - and that he was much too invested in spiting this fifteen-year boy who had no idea he even existed. He still felt like the weaker one in this conflict, and he didn't like it at all.

Roulé sighed. He snapped the briefcase closed and leaned against a wall, watching others pass by with hooded eyes.

Guy had looked so _happy,_ holding his friend's hand, the silver bracelet around his wrist glimmering in the same light that brought out the endless ocean in his eyes. Such a boy was too firmly grounded in reality to be content elsewhere; the world Roulé occupied would be too much for him. Hadn't the man seen enough proof of that already? Hadn't he seen how Guy had ended up more hurt than him, seeing the older man tied up and distressed? Sure the boy hadn't _showed_ it overmuch, but it'd been an ugly sight, nothing that he ought to have seen at that age - or ever, so to speak.

He reacted so strongly to anything about Guy, as if he stood firmly behind every stray thought and smile.  
But truthfully he hadn't thought that much about it. He was afraid to. He thought back to the pensive look on the boy's face, the way he had gazed at Roulé's body like he was art (neither more nor less) - and how he himself recognized so _little_ of the one he was truly seeking behind Guy's eyes, and _oh,_ he murmured, his eyelids fluttering shut and pressing a hand to his heart. It was absurd, he knew. Everything was _correct_ at present: Guy and Thomas, Roulé and his beloved, all of them knew their place. Neither of the boys could have ever come about without the latter, and by all senses Roulé ought to have felt _fulfilment_ at seeing them together. So why he felt the petty urge to _disrupt_ this universe, he didn't know, but he most certainly thought himself ridiculous for it.

He sighed again - then blinked and stared at the change that had taken place without him noticing. His breath was _visible_ in the air, condensing into a thin steam of pearly mist; completely out of place with the warmth of the day. He was becoming cold to _himself._ This was enough to startle Roulé out of his brief spell of angst, and he shook his head slightly, hurrying away from the market once and for all. Best not to dwell on those sad thoughts any longer, lest he end up trudging back to his apartment to curl up in his bed without dinner - now that was far too miserable of an end to such an _important_ day! Along the way he passed a fringe-located stall selling blown glass crafts, and threw a reproachful glance at the distorted reflection that he threw upon them before making his way towards the nearest Metro station. He could have walked a little further, but no matter; he'd change at Rouchechouart. What was important was that he moved on.

Before anything else, before even his god-given responsibility towards Guy's well-being, Roulé had to be a _gentleman_ as well as a guardian. It would do well for him to remember that. His pride hurt, yes - it was debateable whether he'd ever get over it, even though he would try his best - but he knew his charge just enough to know that he could (and should) expect no more from the boy. His own wistful feelings and whatever metaphysical similarity that he saw in the boy were irrelevant; perhaps one day he'd sit Guy down and _tell_ him, of that person whose essence the youth embodied, but it wasn't the time yet.

Besides, he could think about that later, or _never_ , if he so preferred. Right now he was needed elsewhere, and at this rate he would never make it. The weight of the briefcase urged him on.

\-----

Twenty minutes later found him strolling lazily across the Bois de Boulogne. Roulé was careful to take his time, letting the late-spring wind ruffle his fringe, for he could take as long with this last encounter as he needed. The journey had warmed him back up again, perhaps a little _too_ well, so he rolled up his sleeves and carried his jacket loosely in one arm; walking soundlessly along the path, he cut a pale and ethereal figure, the sun almost adding a faint halo around the edges of him. It was a fitting image to show himself in, considering who he was due to meet.

Roulé stopped when he saw a large cylinder-shaped marble war monument up ahead. It was near here that he ought to stop and rest. He looked around and saw no one but couples and children, none of whom stood out to him in the slightest. All the benches near were occupied as well, one by a family, one by a young man who was gazing dreamily ahead, and one by a couple not talking to one another.

He thought for a moment. Then he focused on the young man, sensing that something wasn't right.  
He was uniformed entirely in light khaki (both shirt and trousers) with a belt around his waist, a garrison cap jaunty atop his head. _Roulé_ recognized that uniform - but he doubted that anyone else around him could. A soldier, and not one from this country. The man looked no older than twenty-seven years old, maybe thirty if one really pushed it; he seemed to be sitting around with no expectations whatsoever for himself, and that was enough of a clue to Roulé that he ought to disturb this man's peace. He went directly up to the bench and sat down, not minding the presence of a silver bin and ashtray inches next to it, and turned to stare at the soldier until the man looked around, only to flinch away as if disturbed at Roulé's persistent gaze.

"... W- _what?_ "

(English. So he'd been right.)

Roulé placed the briefcase by his feet and leaned back comfortably on the bench, rummaging in his jacket pocket for his notebook and pen. He flipped to a new page and wrote a _salut_ upon it, the sure way of greeting every new person he met, and lifted it up for the soldier (who had been watching him warily all this time) to read.

"What are you - _oh_ -" the realization had dawned on this man, too, like so many others before him. "... I see. _Salut._ Cat got your tongue, eh?"

This was _exactly_ the right thing to say, though no one else would have known it. Roulé paused and looked at him with a _very_ odd smile on his face; he himself doubted that anybody else would have been able to hit the figurative nail on the head better than that. That alone was endearing him fast to this soldier, and with even more confidence he turned a page and scribbled down a little invitation:

[ _Je m'appelle Roulé_  
_Il fait très beau aujourd'hui_  
_Puis-je m'asseoir ici je voudrais prendre un verre avec vous_ ]

When the page was presented to him, the young man leaned in to read it carefully, before letting out a genuinely apologetic chuckle. "Ha. You're going to have to write that out again - _Roulé,_ is that what I'm to call you? My French just isn't that good. Never got a chance to improve."

[It is such a beautiful day today  
Would it be awfully rude of me to join you on this bench I'd like to share a drink with you]

The second attempt went through perfectly.  
The soldier looked at him strangely for a second after reading it, though he also seemed highly amused. "You queer?" he asked; Roulé only smiled peacefully in response, which was apparently good enough for him. "sure, I guess, why not. I haven't had a drink in a long time. Or talked to _anyone_ , for that matter."

Roulé bent down to reach for the briefcase, and snapped the locks open. From the depths of the briefcase he dug out the bottle of wine he'd stashed in there earlier, two crystal wineglasses, a corkscrew, a pack of cigarettes, a matchbox, a budded white rose and a small silver tea-light candle (barely a third of the size of his palm), lining up those items in order of size. The soldier was giving him an incredulous look as if he couldn't believe how Roulé had stuffed all of those things in such a _thin_ briefcase, which went diligently ignored; with a delicate flourish, Roulé took out a match and struck it against the bench, lighting the wick before blowing out the flame. He then rested the candle between himself and the soldier, before leaning into the bench comfortably as if nothing of much note had happened.

[It's a wine I specially chose for you I hope you like it  
Feel free to do the honours]

"... Right," the young man uttered slowly, and took the bottle, turning it round in his hands as he couldn't quite trust it just yet. "... it _is_ fully sealed?"

[I guarantee that it's never been opened]

"Not fucked?"

[Not fucked ♥]

And that was the breaking point. The sheer _absurdity_ that Roulé had brought to him in such a short space of time finally had gotten to the soldier; he burst out in raucous laughter the moment he saw the note, so hard that before long he was gasping for breath as he weakly reached for the corkscrew. Roulé merely watched him with a delicate smile, his quiet and accepting presence encouraging the other to open the long-awaited wine and pour the two of them a nice full glass.

Granted, he was slow and a little awkward about it - another observing might have said that his wine-pouring skills were _rusty_ \- but this was entirely fine with Roulé, as during the pouring of the second glass a temporary distraction came along. From behind the monument something rustled, and a fine tabby cat came strolling towards them, its green eyes fixed intensely on first the soldier (who froze upon seeing it - perhaps he disliked cats, or had no stance on them) then the other man. It stopped for a brief moment to let out a surprisingly high-pitched mew for its size before making a beeline for Roulé, hopping up on his side of the bench and curling up on the man's lap as if nothing had happened.  
If the soldier had noticed a sad fondness in Roulé's eyes at that, he commented on it not at all. The man smiled and stroked the cat between its ears, wracking its body quite with noisy purrs, and accepted his own glass.

[ _Merci_ ]

"Cheers."

The soldier was the first to drink, initially with caution, then with full-hearted delight. The cat, and Roulé, watched him with unconcealed interest.

"Oh. _Ohh,_ this hits the spot."

[I knew you would like it this pleases me  
Would you like a cigarette with that]

"Not yet. I always preferred a Chesterfield, myself. Maybe later."

Roulé nodded, accepting the answer. Being under no such preference himself, he took a cigarette and a match for himself; upon seeing this, the ginger tabby haughtily hopped off his lap and walked off elsewhere without looking back, its fluffy tail held high and proud. "He knows what's good for him," was the soldier's wry comment on the matter, before he drank again and let out a noise of praise. "nice. Very, _very_ nice. Say, I've been wondering this for the past few minutes, and now maybe you'll indulge me. Why are you _here_ , all alone, spending time in the park instead of anywhere else?" he gestured towards Roulé's briefcase. "if you'd just passed by I'd have thought you worked somewhere in an office, perhaps even that you were on a lunch break. And why _me?_ Not that I mind company."

So he didn't understand just yet. This was to be expected.  
Roulé considered telling him outright, but backed out at the last second. This encounter was one that needed decorum.

[I think that question is best saved for later  
Feel free to ask me again in a little while and I will answer you]

"Full of secrets, aren't you? Have it your way," but the man didn't sound annoyed in the slightest. He took a tiny birdlike sip from the wine and let out a low 'mmm', looking into the glass as if he were loath to lose even one drop of the wine. "this wine really _is_ amazing. That's kind of rich, I guess, us being in a country overflowing with wine, but it's true. Never thought wine could be so delicious, I'm sorry I keep going on about it. What year is this from?"

[1976 vintage]

"Damn. Never thought I'd stay alive long enough to get my hands on one of those," the soldier laughed, and tilted the glass to drink - before pausing, smiling a bittersweet smile, and lowering the glass to gaze in front of him instead. The lake gleamed innocently in front of them, like the silver scales of a fish, and it was beautiful. ".... Though... I'm... _not,_ am I?"

It took a while. But eventually a response did come from Roulé's end; he turned his head to gaze at the soldier until the latter looked around again, and when their eyes met, answered with an apologetic lowering of his eyes and a shake of his head. The soldier merely closed his eyes and turned back towards the lake, the glass held loosely in his hand. Then there was silence, for what was probably a good long quarter of an hour, as he came around to this essential truth. Occasionally the soldier turned the stem of the wineglass in his hand, and once he raised it to the light to observe the glow of the liquid.

"All of us knew what we were in for, is what I want you to know," he finally broke the silence, setting the glass down when it had been emptied, and looking down to observe his pristine gloves. Roulé glanced over at him and for a second there was a small knowing glint in his eyes. "I joined the war late. If I'd been signed up just three months later, I can't help but think that I'd probably have lived through it all. But I knew what was coming, and that I shouldn't be too disappointed about never making it home. But telling yourself that is one thing and actually believing is another. Maybe that's why I'm still here."

Pause. A strong wind rattled the leaves above them. The soldier finally took a cigarette and helped himself to a light.

"I'd visited Paris several times as a child, and when I heard where I was being sent part of me was afraid to come back here - not because I was afraid of dying, but because I wasn't sure if I could bear seeing such a beautiful place in ruins. As I said, it was late in the war, so it was abject misery and destruction that we'd grown to expect. You hold onto what you get, when times are bad, but what no one ever tells you is that just because it's in the past, or in your imagination, doesn't mean that they can't ruin it for you forever. I thought it would crush a small part of me forever, seeing the places I'd visited and the shops I'd peered through destroyed. But when I got here, or rather got to hide out in the outskirts of the city with the rest of my troop, I was stunned because so _much_ of it had remained the way it was."

He sighed heavily and took a long drag of his cigarette.

"I'm not saying that it was the _right_ choice they made, of course, letting the Nazis in so that Paris would remain. But right or not, I was glad to see it intact. And I was glad to help restore it. Motivations in war don't really make sense out of war, but that's how it was: I was sent to protect and liberate Paris, and I helped. For three glorious weeks Paris, and the _image_ of Paris, was my entire life, and I breathed in its air like every breath was my last and woke up every day not knowing if I would live to see the stars falling over the city. And when I couldn't go on any longer in the body I was born into, I came here to sit and stay for as long as I needed to watch the trees grow again, to see the city rebuild itself as it once was in my boyhood dreams. It's done a splendid job."

Then there was silence, again, for a good long while. The family in front of them packed up the remains of their picnic and walked away, holding hands, back into domestic bliss.

"That's me, a _foreigner_ in this city," the soldier said quietly. "and sometimes I lie here and I think of how many people with their own Parises there were, how many people walked on holy ground during that war since all the earth is, and wonder whether they found what they were looking for. I know I did. No regrets at all. I wouldn't have done a thing differently."

He nodded decisively at that point, and turned to face the other man. "You said that I ought to ask again earlier. About why you were here," he said, and laughed a little, patting over Roulé's shoulder. "... would you mind it awfully if I don't do that anymore? I've figured it out. Still, I feel like I ruined some kind of surprise."

But Roulé shook his head, completely serious. He bent his head and wrote out a response for the first time in over half an hour.

[Of course not  
This is the outcome I was hoping for]

"Heh. Then you understand."

[If would be positively scandalous if I could not]

The soldier laughed again, louder; this time, Roulé joined in, even if no one could hear the two of them, and in that moment it was as if they had been close friends all their lives. For what was the truth that Roulé lived by? - _There is no one in the world not worth listening to, even if they make no sound._ This young man was not the first that he'd reached out and listened to, and he would be far from the last; but deep within his heart Roulé remembered each and every tale that he had been told, for the storytellers' lack of _physical_ being didn't mean that they weren't worth listening to. He was capable of treasuring the final vestiges of those individual worlds, when no one else was, and prioritized that above almost anything else that he ever did.

"... What happens now?"

Alas, that was something Roulé couldn't advise him on. He didn't presume what the soldier had believed in; the experience was different for everyone, he was sure. Besides, he'd never been able to find out what lay beyond the human world in _their_ terms, he wasn't the best person to ask. So he settled on a reply that he thought offered the freest consolation.

[Where would you like to go]

The soldier beamed as if he'd been waiting for that question all his life.  
"God bless it, I don't know," he murmured softly, sleepily almost, the smoke through his lips obscuring the view in front of them before vanishing. "but... this... this is good, isn't it?"

_Good?_

Roulé closed his eyes and folded his hands together on his lap. Two senses eliminated, scent and sound flooded in to take over, along with the slow longing spread of nicotine at the back of his tongue. Mere feet away from where they were, children were playing, and a plane was flying overhead; the lakewater glimmered silver just behind his eyelids; in the scent of freshly cut grass and the bittersweet odour of the fountains there resided a kind of fervour that weaved its charm through the gravel-strewn paths and all those who walked upon it. Then he opened his eyes again and took in the rich green grass spread in front of him, and he could remember how it _once_ had been, treaded bare and dusty by the boots of those who meant well and those who had not. A time when nothing had been beautiful without a hefty price.

But that had been then. Now everything was alive again, and it was almost as if the past had never happened. He saw the world that had been saved by the efforts of - really quite _ordinary_ people, people less powerful than he and entirely unlike himself, and he saw that it was good.  
Yes. It was a difficult world, but often it was beautiful, and even though he could not always see it, it was good.

They sat there together under a vapour trail in the sky, melting away into warm blue nothing.

\-----

When he next looked to his right, he saw that the soldier was no longer there.

Not a trace of him remained save for the cigarette filter, still smoking thinly atop the bench. Roulé picked it up gingerly and gazed down at the tip for a moment, the faintest tinge of a smile - a mixed one, sad, relieved, at peace - adorning his pink mouth, before he leaned over and placed the filter atop the outdoor ashtray. Then he bent down to pick up his briefcase and opened it a little, just enough to slip his hand inside, feeling around before he pulled out a tea-light candle much like the one sitting next to him. This one was gold, however. He contemplated taking out another match, but didn't do so.

The cat had returned to sit by his feet. Roulé inclined his head in acknowledgement - before he shook his head softly, and held out his hand palm-forwards to dissuade it from jumping onto the bench. He would only abide a clean seat for this beautiful creature's use. With one hand he swept away the slight reminders of cigarette ash, then picked up the wine bottle to attempt re-corking it. It didn't go well. The cork wouldn't budge back in, popping out again with a pitiful noise and spattering his right hand lightly with wine; Roulé first threw a dirty look at the cat (which rolled onto its back playfully, as if it had no care for why he was glaring), before staring incredulously at the bottle, as if to scold it for daring to do what it did.

Then he tried again. It worked _that_ time. Back that bottle went, in his briefcase.

Then Roulé made liberal use of his handkerchief to clean his hand.  
Times like this, he realized over and over again that fate could not be doubted.

Wherever the soldier had gone - even if it was a clichéd phrase, and even if his own experiences had been rather different, Roulé genuinely wished him peace. He would never return to this park again, or this _world_ for that matter, now that Roulé had come by to listen to his story; his wish fulfilled and duties done, there had been nothing more left for him to do but to simply march on towards what next awaited him. But there were other duties to the dead. If Roulé was the only one who could perform them, then so be it. With the dying light of the silver candle he lit the gold, and held the former close and precious on his palm. After that, the wick of the silver candle - burnt down into nothing more than a tiny stub by that point - sank into the pool of wax and was extinguished promptly, the exit of its flame as quiet and anonymous as a final breath in a night-time ward. It made him sad, even though he had seen a sight like this perhaps a thousand times over, sometimes in more tragic times. But at the same time, he was glad for the feeling. Everyone needed _someone_ to feel endlessly precious sorrow such as this upon their passing. And that was not out of malice or the wishing of some other misfortune, but the simple truth that it was the last thing that could affirm their existence - the last thing the living could do for those who had set out on that otherworldly journey.

Roulé stood up and made his way to the monument. Two roses lay there at the foot of the marble, one red and one pink, the latter crossed above the former. Roulé leaned down and carefully pried the two roses apart, just slightly, enough so that he could place his white one in the middle.

(But he thought he still positioned it closer to the red.)

The extinguished tea-light went on the left-hand side, the lit one on the right, both enough to cover the width of the monument. From his briefcase he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, opened it, and pulled one out. It was a Chesterfield.  
The cat curled softly around his legs and purred.

\-----

There was it, then.

That was how Roulé left the scene, the two tea-light candles, the white rose and the cigarette set by the foot of the monument. He sat by it for a long time in silence, stroking the cat on his lap, not paying mind to the occasional looks he received from the passers-by. It was past five o'clock when he eventually stood and dusted his thighs; the cat slipped off his lap, leaving not a single strand of hair behind, and meowed sweetly up at him in response to his smile. It was the first one to take its leave, too, taking off after only a small brush of farewell against Roulé's legs, its paws making a sound like that of a bird in flight as they brushed against the grass.

 _Au revoir,_ Roulé murmured soundlessly after it, then gazed back at the Cross of Lorraine carved upon the monument.  
He didn't know who that had been directed towards, even as he said it. This wasn't, however, a bad thing.

The Métro was quiet as he returned home. He had wished it so. As he stood holding the handle above his head, gazing at the blur of darkness and the occasional station-stops, he reflected upon everything that had happened that day - and deemed his own conduct, on the whole, as satisfactory. Everything that needed doing had been done. For a moment he thought back to Guy and idly wondered what his charge was doing right now, and decided that whatever it was, he was happy enough; this thought came with far less of a pang in his heart than before, and Roulé was relieved. He left the train and Pigalle and started back home, buying the necessary ingredients (cured ham, mushrooms, a carton of milk, a round of camembert, and a single pomegranate) for his dinner on the way while they were discounted. He really would have to leave the croissant sandwich for another day. By the time he was turning the key in the lock, he was in that calm, pleasant mood that he'd started the day with once more.

All was well.

The briefcase tucked away in his bedroom, and the pasta bake nicely settled into the oven, Roulé got to examining the Pink Floyd record once more. He spun it idly between his pale hands twice, thinking, before setting it down on its sleeve. From the very top of the bookcase he brought down a cardboard box, dusted it, and opened it up to reveal an old record player. He sometimes forgot that he owned one at all, what with the fast pace of modern times, and he more often forgot just how long this record player had travelled alongside him. It had served him well in Marseilles; it served him well in Montmartre, when he had occasion to use it. He picked up _Pipers at the Gates of Dawn_ , set it upon the record player after pushing the dust cover aside, and spent a couple of seconds just watching the platter turning in silence before finally moving the tonearm into position. Just as the first notes were ringing out the oven timer went off, and he went to take care of it.

Soon he had in his gloved hands a steaming dish of baked pasta, the rich creamy sauce streaking nicely against the cubes of ham and diced mushroom. Roulé had experimented with spinach leaves and a pinch of thyme; he inhaled, a hint of pink rushing to his cheeks as he nodded and set the baking dish atop the counter. It was exactly enough for two helpings. Any other day, he would have made nothing more of this particular quantity, but the events of earlier (and the events of _days_ earlier) had made him wistful, and it was with a renewed _gladness_ that he spooned the amount he wanted onto a plate and set it upon the table. In the fridge he had an open bottle of champagne and he took it out, intending to finish it off altogether. Sitting down, he first took the time to liberate the sparkling pink liquid into a glass before he took up the cutlery and began to eat.

Delicious as always. He really _was_ a fine cook, this meal was a success as well.  
Nobody had ever told him any different, and Roulé took unchanging pride in that. If only if it could be warmer.

_"Jupiter and Saturn, Oberon, Miranda and Titania  
Neptune, Titan; stars can frighten-"_

Oh, _he_ would know. Roulé smiled, leaned back a little to drink his champagne, and resumed his meal.

Ten past eight saw the man's dinner finished, the record finally reaching its end, and Roulé having chosen his outfits for the day after. The pomegranate he bought was the only thing he hadn't touched since he brought it home, and he took it out of its bag now, washing it in lukewarm water and letting all the water drip off its waxy skin before setting it atop the counter. Its rightful owner would come to claim it tomorrow. Coffee in hand, he sipped at it once without paying much regard to the taste, then put away the record and record player where both items belonged: one atop the bookshelf, one stacked with his other records. (It'd been a fine album, actually. He was ultimately glad for having bought it.) Then he tipped the rest of the coffee down the sink and went to shower himself off, soaking in whatever heat he could muster. The night was rapidly cooling outside and he was so very often cold, alone in this apartment - he had no reason to linger tonight, it was off to bed with him, regardless of how early it was.

"..."

The steam calmed the very last of his turbulent mind.  
Roulé rubbed a little bit of steam off the mirror with his index finger, watching the rest vanish into nothingness at his touch, before glancing at himself again. Handsome as always, a little weary as always, nothing ever changed. He ran his fingers through his hair to dry it - laughed at the sensation of his curls bouncing back - and stepped out naked into the living room, turning all the lights off as he walked to his large, welcoming bed. The man felt quite ready to turn his back on the day in order to face another, something that he didn't always feel and treasured whenever he did.

For such was the way of Roulé's world.  
Elsewhere in Paris - Guy was taking a bath and sighing heavily to himself, Thomas was already deeply asleep to avoid thinking any more about the events of his day, Roulé's best-beloved was sitting below the stars, and so on, all in their respective, self-contained worlds. He might not have been able to recognize all of them or put himself into their owners' shoes - he most certainly had no wish to _like_ all of those worlds - but they were out there, and the man had learnt enough during his long lifetime to respect their existences. It was for them that he prayed every night, but most of all, for his own, as expected from the kind of being that he had become. Surrounded by clean sheets and the lingering warmth of his _Victoire_ , he bent his head again in silent worship, not moving from that position for a full minute. Then he nodded to himself, adjusted the notepad and pen upon the bedside table (he would have need of it soon), turned off the lamp, and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr in what he considers at the end an average day, Roulé wakes up, says his prayers, reads the future in a briefcase, gets invited to an engagement party, is fed cake by fond marketplace stall owners, writes reality-based fanfiction of a kind, slightly smitten boy's future in his head, buys a record out of spite towards that boy, talks to a dead person, pays his respects, pets a special cat, and goes to bed. 
> 
> Never have so many words been spent on saying something so simple. XD But I hope this answers quite a few things about Roulé, or altermately, raise even more questions, like it ought to.
> 
> * Yes, he was doing what you thought he was doing in the shower.  
> * Guy will never get to eat that Danish. But he would have loved raspberry.  
> * Roulé's briefcase holds the secrets of the universe; trope-wise it is a [bag of holding](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bag_of_holding), I guess. A major influence in Roulé's character is Mary Poppins, and I shamelessly confess to the briefcase being influenced by her bag.  
> * The waitress (Beatrice) is the same one who served Roulé and Guy in Chapter 3. She is only referred to by name at the start of each subsection because that is not her real name and it seemed to break flow if I, as narrator, referred to her with that name. I am truly helpless against my characters.  
> * The physical descriptions associated with certain signs are accurate to that sign language. (Blowing a kiss really means _'bonjour'_ in FSL, for example.)  
>  * You just know Guy got himself tipsy on those alcopops after his _Victoire_. I won't deny that they impaired his judgement that night.  
>  * I came up with the figure of 420 francs by applying the now-dead French franc's exchange rate to how much that rare French pressing of _Piper at the Gates of Dawn_ would cost in Euros. Or perhaps I just wanted to make a joke because I am literally a child  
>  * The soldier's death occured during 24-25th of August, 1944, during the Liberation of Paris.  
> * Over the past year I've been thinking seriously of the possibility that I may be an animist - I really do believe that there are strict duties to the dead, and that perhaps the dead are capable of resenting or leaving behind an undeniable presence. Not ghosts, but some solidly-emotional trace. Shamans and spiritual mediums are still very common in my country; Roulé is my fictionalized example of one.  
> * Roulé is listening to Pink Floyd's 'Astronomy Domine'.  
> * I have said very little about this particular sequence - but do you remember Roulé's highly confused, rambling attempt to make sense of his past in Chapter 4? All of those events happened to him at some point in his very long life, but his memories being broken and shattered from trauma, he can't untangle them in chronological order. The record player's existence asserts that he 1) did once live in Marseilles, and 2) he was listening to music on a record player back then. Not a lot of information, but that's a coherent thread of his backstory.


End file.
